


Found a Demon (In My Safest Haven)

by ohioinmymind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Elevator Sex, Explicit Language, Floor Sex, Hot Tub Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Murder, Shower Sex, Violence, Weapons, mob!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 152,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohioinmymind/pseuds/ohioinmymind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barely escaping tragedy as children, Zayn and Liam grow up unconventionally with their share of monsters hiding in the shadows. When Liam starts asking more questions than he should, Zayn tries to stop him, but in many ways it's too late. Liam spends his time chasing secrets and trying to uncover the truth, and all Zayn wants to chase is Liam. Because Zayn doesn't need to go looking for trouble, it usually just finds him on its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i scraped my knees while i was praying

**Author's Note:**

> To Cody, because I don't know anyone who believes in more than you did. 
> 
> Zayn and Liam aren't brothers, just two boys caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. 
> 
> Special thanks to Noel for not letting me trash this entire thing, and for being my ghostwriter in one of the best parts of this fic. Thank you to anyone who has listened to me bitch and whine about this fic over the past six months. This was supposed to be a Big Bang fic but I write slow, so here it is months later. 
> 
> This is my baby, so be gentle. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the men of One Direction, or any other characters in this story. All characters are a work of fiction, and (sadly) none of these events took place in real life. Also any liberties taken with cultural and descriptive inclusions are all mine, so if I made any mistakes or happened to offend anyone, I do apologize. 
> 
> Title from Turn It Off by Paramore, as well as chapter titles.

Dripping and swirling and licking. Dripping ashes fall here and there, bringing lost memories of a lifetime down around them. Swirling emotions—ones of panic and fear and excitement and a sudden lack of boredom—they twine together to make his mind a place of haze. He drinks in the thrill of the licking flames that alternate between lighting a path and creating a blockade to Zayn’s only safe escape.

All of it, the fire and the haunting heat, ejects more tears from the small life in Zayn’s arms. It’s all going to crash and burn and the only thing Zayn can hear is his mother’s voice telling him to _run_. His mind’s eye is primarily privy to the determination etched into her screaming face as she ripped a child from its mother’s charring clutches and handed Zayn a baby to keep alive. He was compelled to watch as she strained her thighs to uphold the beam Zayn watched disintegrate in her hands.

Then the flames ate her alive, skin and flesh and bone.

Zayn’s remaining choice is to keep running, small feet thumping away from the loud pops and crackles of the big orange monster. The one Zayn couldn’t stop to play with, because his mum asked him to do something, and he didn’t have disobedience programmed into his morals. So he runs and runs, little baby Liam right there, squirming and crying, and so much louder than any screams of peril caused by the heat behind them. And then he reaches it, the cool escape to freedom. Its relief in the form of a door that’s broken and damaged, tiny little holes littering the frail wood, and Zayn rams through.

He holds Liam at the other side of his body, bruising fingers in his small gut to keep him from slipping to the ground and bursting into nonexistence. Thank god he does turn him away, praise the heavens and earth and moon and the sun because _it hurts_ , the wood is hot and Zayn’s leaking moisture out of his face and arms and legs and eyes. It burns so good, though—tells Zayn that he’s alive, that Liam is okay. That he’s done what he was told, fulfilled his mother’s wishes as best he could.

He doesn’t stop running until the ashes stop falling onto his face from the sky.

Zayn sits there, hole in his side not healing any faster with his unmoving body. Liam’s still crying, his pudgy face blackened with traces of smoke. His heavy tears slide through the charcoaled powder on his cheeks. And just like Zayn’s side—his bleeding and burning hip—Liam’s cries assure Zayn that they’re _alive._ He’s been saved and Zayn is responsible for the saving. A hero, that’s what he is—saving lives.

Every five year old boy has dreams made of these—notions of a savior’s worth.

Something like regret, maybe remorse—it flashes across his young and undeveloped brain, makes him frown at the ever-growing pile of embers where his family one stood. He sees his mother, screaming and letting tears paint her cheeks in the pretty glow of the flames. Zayn thinks he’s supposed to be sad.

But the actual face he sees in the fire, they puzzle him, leaves him confused. It never goes away, no matter how many times he tries to blink it away. _She_ shows up over and over and over again. Lurking there in the shadows, face half-lit by flames and Zayn doesn’t know why she’s not screaming or burning or writhing on the floor. The fire doesn’t eat her up like it’s supposed to. She’s just there, and Zayn is just here. Liam screams— _doesn’t ever stop_ —and the girl is finally gone when Zayn decides to look back up.

His little hands—smeared and caked with grass and tar and red _angry_ burns—they pick up Liam’s tiny body, hold his head up to stop it from rolling around and around. Zayn doesn’t let him go until they come for him, scoop the both of them up and shush Liam’s tears in a dark and cold backseat just before the flashing lights reach the pulsing glow of Zayn’s old home.

She’s there again when he looks back, right in the middle of the road, untouched by tragedy.

Zayn doesn’t know what it means, or who she is. Again, he reminds himself that this is a _dream,_ one where he can only see his hands and legs and feet and the tears making tracks down the plump of Liam’s cheeks. Liam crawls forward, lands in Zayn’s lap and keeps crying. Zayn doesn’t think he knows what he’s crying for— _who._

But he does think he should be crying, too. Because every time he comforts Liam, wraps his five-year-old arms around Liam’s shaking, inconsolable form, he loses _her_. Doesn’t see her again—won’t until the next night, the next dream.

It doesn’t make Zayn sad, though. There’s not room for anything but relief and gladness. The relief that comes with being able to breathe air without ashes and the gladness fulfilled in not being dead.

Zayn’s just happy to be alive. That’s it.

**/////**

“Zayn.”

_Fire, fire, fire_. It all burns, hurts so bad that it causes a delicious pain. They lick at his heels as he runs. _Don’t stop running._ She’s behind him, so close. _Leave me alone,_ he wants to shout. Tries to, but his mouth won’t make any sound. Zayn can’t hear over the crackles—over the pops of flames and the creaking of wood—but he knows she’s still there. Her feet thud against the wood in a pulsating warning as she gains ground behind him.

_The door,_ he has to get to the door. In a familiar pattern of steps Zayn heads himself down a corridor until he’s there. He’s crashing into his destination and it hurts, the pain is only bad. Metal melts in his palm when he twists what’s left of the dripping doorknob. Zayn shoves the door open with his shoulder and prays it doesn’t break because he needs something to keep her at bay. _Please don’t break._ It doesn’t, and Zayn is slamming the wood into the door frame, leaving her stricken face on the other side. The wood shakes underneath her fists, and the only thing left of her is the voice she uses to cry out.

“Zayn, wake _up_.”

_I’m sorry,_ Zayn wants to say he’s sorry. He’s sorry she has to burn. He’s so _sorry._ But he’s trapped himself to burn with her, Zayn’s escape from the unknown is has left him concealed in this room, again. They burn together, on either side of the door. She’s crying, but Zayn cannot say the same. He doesn’t cry, nor does he want to. Zayn won’t allow this to burn him up form the inside as well.

“Zayn.”

Maybe he should open the door— _maybe._

_Take her hand and help her._ _Help a stranger; lead her to safety with no orders_. No instructions. He should, because without a sliver of kindness, she’ll be left to die. Right now, she’s dying. _They_ are dying. A hiss and a choke spit from Zayn’s throat and he touches the doorknob again, feels it melt into the creases of his hand. _It’s too late._ Zayn’s too late to save her because the door is closed, unable to be unopened no matter the nobility Zayn feels he’s entitled to, it is done.

He killed her.

_Zayn killed her._

His foot, he kicks out his foot. Stabbing with the end of his foot, Zayn swings his leg again and again with no avail.

The door _has_ to open—Zayn has to save her.

She’s dying.

“Zayn, _please._ ”

Crack, _crack._ It snaps, the wood splinters around his foot and she’s—gone.

She’s gone.

_Where did she go?_ Zayn looks around, his eyes squint and he’s troubled with wiping sweat and flames from his forehead. _Where is she?_

“Zayn, it’s a nightmare.” He’s shaking, moving around without his consent—thrashing. “ _Please,_ wake up. Zayn, it’s okay. _You’re okay._ ”

Falling, Zayn is falling. Knees on hot wood, palms littered with pins and needles and rips. He looks back up, from where he’d fallen and _there she is._ He found her. Her hair is a blanket, but he’s looking in a mirror. She has his eyes and mouth and nose. Zayn looks at her and sees _his_ coldness, right there in _his_ eyes.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Her feet are on his chest. They hold him down and he can’t get up. He’s burning and she’s watching and it’s fair.

Because he left her to burn, now it’s his turn.

_“Zayn.”_

He closes his eyes, because Zayn figures that’s what you do when you’re ready to leave the world behind. Zayn doesn’t need any preparation to die. _I’m sorry._ Again, he can’t say words that won’t make it past his throat. But he thinks she hears it. She presses down harder, puts more weight on top of him, digging his body into the ground that’s fitfully melting around him. _Everything’s burning._

He’s gone. Done. Dea—

Something is touching his cheeks, pressure—a slap. No, _a punch_ and Zayn’s sitting up. Real life splashes over him, nothing is tinted orange. The world around him is white and seemingly pure. He’s thrashing in sheets because _fuck,_ he thought the nightmares had run their course.

Liam’s there—always—little chubby face looking back at Zayn. “Are you okay?”

Zayn’s not sure, not really. He can feel himself sweating, hands and forehead slick. Because just like always—he felt like he was burning. On fire. But he’s here now, with Liam, who’s always substituted as Zayn’s light. His hands cradle Zayn’s face, body already in Zayn’s lap. He has tears of his own on his face, distress because Zayn’s a selfish fuck who can’t keep his terrors to himself. “I’m sorry, Li. Didn’t mean to wake you up, bud. Go—”

His head shakes, mountain of hair shaking—Zayn can fucking hear it. His hands leave Zayn’s face, instead folding into his chest, crawling further into Zayn’s space. Tears spatter on his naked chest and Liam is the one shaking, ever the emotional one. “You scared me, Zayn. You were screaming. I was _scared_ for you.”

“Shh,” Zayn hushes, arm wrapping around him, hands soothing him on his back and in his hair. “I’m sorry, okay? You’re going to be alright, Liam, calm down.”

Liam’s little fingers travel to Zayn’s side, idly skate over the mark—their mark. The one that reminds Liam of the lengths Zayn will go to assure his safety. He won’t ever falter, won’t fail. The singed skin that runs from his hip, winds beside his ribs for the most part, ending in a faded slash at the top of his shoulder. It’s a faint line in places. Places where they grafted the evidence of Zayn’s heroism. It serves as a keepsake to Liam’s young mind, still.

Liam is Zayn’s whole world, now. He’s the only thing that makes sense, even if Zayn doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why Liam was placed in his care, but he _knows_. Knows that it’s a responsibility he’ll never turn over to anyone else.

“Let’s get you back in bed, yeah?” But Zayn doesn’t move, not yet. Liam needs to cry some more, and Zayn allows it for tonight—just this night. An onlooker would think Liam’s the one who had just been shaken, torn from the insides. Liam’s hair is fluff in Zayn’s hands, he pushes it back from his face, revealing a spot for a comforting kiss, lays it there on Liam’s forehead and rubs his back before prodding him to move. “Okay, let’s get you back to your bed, yeah?”

“No.”

“Liam.”

He’s blubbering, swallowing his own tears when Zayn peers down at him. “What if you have another bad dream?”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t make me go away, Zayn.”

He sounds broken, _devastated_ at the thought of leaving Zayn alone. His heart beats a little faster, and Zayn is very afraid it’s going to burst right out of his chest. That causes a break in his good judgment because all Liam is ever supposed to feel is love and warmth and never, ever fear.

Zayn claws his fingers back through his mess of curls and hushes his whines with a rocking motion that lulls him to a bay of safety. “Just until you fall asleep, and then I’m taking you back to your room.”

“Okay.”

It’s a lie, a fib. Zayn won’t refuse Liam, will never force him to do anything he doesn’t openly express desire in.

He strokes Liam’s hair, kisses him in console again.

Zayn thinks _that—_ that unwillingness to tell Liam no—that will be a problem.

**/////**

Guns and knives. Zayn was raised with guns and knives. Bruised men with untarnished egos and noses more prominent than the sine of their dark hair.

There were smiles around a Sunday dinner, passed with the same fluidity as the grilled bread and cured meat. And Simon was own savior—the man tasked with pulling Zayn away from a life of jumping house to house with Liam tucked under his jacket. He gave them a new family. One with a Nan that sat Liam on her lap, spun Zayn stories, and fed them both Ciabatta.

Simon brushed Liam’s unruly hair, provided Zayn with the things he needed to groom his own mop of tangles into something neat, and he never yelled. Never once did Zayn have to worry about Simon sneering at them for sharing the shame space. He never patronized Liam for wetting the bed. And never did he pace the halls during bedtime, or send them upstairs in anger when Liam turned over glasses of juice onto Simon’s table runner.

He told Zayn it was okay to cry, once. Told him to cry until he couldn’t cry anymore, and then to never cry again. Not unless he was with his knees in the dirt, huddled over the casket of someone he held dear. He also taught Zayn to ride a bike, and how to hold his tongue to the roof of his mouth to prevent a brain freeze. Guided his hand, helped his fingers form the letters of his name with his hand. Zayn Malik. M-A-L-I-K. And he was there when Liam needed the same direction.

They stuck out, their names and their faces not matching those of the people surrounding them. Noses too small, shoulders too slim. Words too straight, without that Old Italian accent, ones painted onto voices of Zayn and Liam’s new uncles, aunts too. But Simon paid them no mind, fought off all aggressors to lead both of his new sons away from their old life—the one lying in the ashes—and into their new ones.

London was far away from Italy, Nana Bonnie always said so. Said a mile between her and her home could substitute for the expanse of an ocean. They lived quiet, all of them. Simon raised his sons, ran his business. Took care of his mother.

He made it okay for Zayn to forget.

Simon made Zayn feel like a man with responsibilities and duties and commands to take out the trash and help Liam eat his vegetables. But he made Zayn a better man when he put a gun in his hand. Told him to shoot, anything he wanted to— _just shoot._ Zayn did, just to see what it felt like. It’s heavy, the gun. And Zayn aims for a vase—hits a jar of herbs centimeters away. He lands on his shoulder and the gun skitters on the floor after it had kicked back and slammed into his face. Bloodied his nose and left him in a broken and ashamed heap on the floor.

Simon didn’t help him up or offer him a handkerchief. Zayn was left there, gun where it had fallen, bullets— _tiny ones_ —in the ceiling and skidded onto the tile. His nose might have been broken, but Zayn didn’t feel any concern for his wellbeing wash over him. Just picked it back up, held it again. Planted his feet this time, looked at his blood staining his shirt sleeves and shot.

It wasn’t scary. Zayn didn’t feel anxious or nervous or jittery. On his back that time, he landed. He tried again; and again and again, until he was out. Shot until the gun made this clicking sound. _Click, click, click, I’m empty._ And he was running, padding upstairs and banging his fists on Simon’s door. _More, I want more._

And then, then Zayn did it again. But Simon lead him outside this time, away from Nana Bonnie and Liam; _especially_ away from Liam. He wasn’t as big and strong and brave as Zayn, not yet. And he shot and smiled and cheered and fell in love for the first time.

Zayn fell in love with the feel of a gun in his hand and adrenaline in his veins.

After that his mistress was fickle. He couldn’t decide whether to give his affections to the power he possessed when he stood over a trembling body. The one begging for the life that Simon was credited with in debt, crying to make Zayn feel something other than pleasure. Or should he love the weapon, not the feeling that it brings, but the weapon itself; something that can render one powerful and powerless with the switching of hands.

Simon taught him to love both. But to save room, save room because one day Zayn will fall for something else— _someone_ else. And it’d be a shame— _a tragedy,_ he said—to not have room for all three.

**/////**

Liam grows up, sprouts from the soles of his favorite shoes until he’s too big to fit comfortably with Zayn between the sheets of a single bed. Zayn watches, sees his progress from face-painting to soccer practice. His arms get wider, thicker, and bigger. His legs extend beneath him, taking the top of his head from Zayn’s chest to his throat.

It’s scary, Zayn thinks, watching someone stretch into something else right in front of your eyes.

He stays in the dark, though. Liam.

Itching, he’s itching for it. Itching to know why Zayn gets to go out with Simon. Why he gets to fill the room with cigar smoke with assorted uncles and cousins. What Zayn’s doing when he goes out at night and doesn’t come back. Gets minimum winks of sleep—has Liam rubbing circles of exhaustion from under Zayn’s eyes.

“Do you, like—do you kill people?” Liam’s fourteen now, they’ve spent over a decade together in the walls of this house. Their home, that is still new to them with each passing day. Still foreign even though they’ve never known anything else—can’t _remember_. Now Liam’s questioning what he sees, broadening his chest and flexing his new found muscles. “Is that what you guys are hiding from me? You kill people? Are you killing people?”

He has skills of his own, Liam does, ones that have nothing to do with firing a gun or dismembering corpses. Zayn keeps that in mind, lobbies those points with Simon every time he looks Liam’s way during Sunday dinner. Comments on how strong he’s gotten, how big he is for his age. Because Zayn started firing guns at eight, and he had the dent in his nose to prove it. The killing hadn’t been long after that; the remnants of Zayn’s innocence washed away with the blood of Simon’s enemies down the drain of Zayn’s shower.

That won’t be Liam, not if Zayn can help it. It will never be Liam because Zayn is confident that he will forge a path of his own; one that doesn’t contain the footsteps of Simon and Zayn.

“Eat your dinner,” is the only response Zayn will allow to be directed towards Liam’s accusations.

They’re alone in the second kitchen, waiting for ten o’clock to arrive with their father. Clangs, it clangs as Liam drops his fork onto the porcelain of his plate. “Answer my question.”

His hand rises to bang, but Zayn’s stern eyes stop him. Liam’s lips turn down then, unimpressed, and he raises his hand again. Zayn doesn’t let it hit the table, grabbing it before it can slam and disturb Zayn any further. “Stop acting like a child.”

Liam jerks his hand away, wounded at the fierce grip of Zayn’s fingers. “Then stop _treating_ me like one.”

Zayn doesn’t react immediately to the pout of Liam’s mouth, crosses his ankles and shovels more Pancetta past his lips. Liam’s looking to him for answers, ones that Zayn isn’t going to give him. Zayn raises a brow, chews his food and swallows. “I’m not gonna tell you again to eat your fucking food. What I do is none of your business. Shut up and eat.”

“Since when is what you do not my business? I thought–” Zayn knows what he thinks, Liam thinks that they should be linked in all things, that what is Zayn’s is also Liam’s. It’s true to an extent, it is. And this, all of this is Liam’s birthright—er, something like that. “I thought we were–”

“You thought wrong, I guess.” Zayn stabs at his food again, the dish growing cold and slimy in his mouth after chewing for so long.

“Zayn, it’s just a question.”

“Eat your dinner,” is once again Zayn’s answer.

“I don’t understand why you get to do all of the cool things.” He’s twirling his fork in the air now. The shine of the metal plays in Zayn’s eyes, _flash flash flash_. It tempers his patience the longer Liam’s mouth moves around the whine of his words. “I feel left out, Zayn. It’s not fair.” Zayn’s not responding to this, so his mouth stays shut. “I’m fourteen, now. I should be able–”

“To get yourself killed?”

Zayn’s calm, letting his meat slide down his throat. Liam’s mouth is open, parted in wonder, an innocence he won’t hold on to for much longer should he continue to pursue his line of questioning. “What does that mean?”

“Are you old enough to die?” The clarity he has when directing his questions at Liam is insane, he should be outraged, but the way Liam fidgets, the way he moves as if there’s a bigger tantrum hiding underneath the sleeves of his sweater, Zayn thinks he’ll get his chance later on. Again, he chews his food, not looking at Liam when he speaks. “Do you think fourteen is old enough to die, Liam?”

“That’s not really fa–”

“It’s not fair?” Zayn chuckles unkindly. He’s being cruel, intending to scare. He wants Liam to be scared—wants his wiry little legs to take him far, far away from this dining room table and the issues he wishes to uncover. “I don’t want to hear that come out of your mouth again, Liam. _Nothing_ is fair,” he jeers, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “Get over it.”

“Just tell me,” Liam stands up, not angry, not mad, but frustrated. Zayn ticks, and his jaw ticks along with him.  Liam carries on, his hands moving in the air beside him. “Or don’t tell me, not all of it anyway. Just—do you kill people, Zayn? Tell me you don’t.” He pleads, begs with the orbs in his eyes, speckles of brown and gold and grey whispering to him. His lip hides behind his teeth. “You don’t, do you?”

It’s cleared in a minute, their dishes and meals and forks. It’s all gone, scattered across the floor in a flash. Zayn’s knuckles are white on the table. His chair is abandoned as well, empty and turned over with the swiftness of his movements. Zayn’s fast, and he’s pointing. “You don’t know anything, okay? A fucking kid—that’s all you are. This,” Zayn’s gun finds his hand, and then the wood of the table, sliding across to Liam’s shaken form. “This isn’t a toy. This doesn’t make things _fair._ ”

“In your favor, it does.” He’s mumbling, talking underneath his breath at Zayn, insecurity rolling off the suede of his sweater. Zayn tracks the lint filmed over Liam’s clothes in favor of his shaking, his angry, nervous shaking. There’s a pointed finger aimed at Zayn’s gun. “If you have that, you have the power, right?”

“ _Wrong._ Guns don’t give you the upper hand,” Zayn explains. He doesn’t waver, never takes his eyes off Liam. There’s the fear, he can see it. The last light before he dives off the cliff, straight into the unknown. A dark black hole that’s going to consume him and what’s left of that charming purity he carries around like a beacon in his pocket. “They even the playing field. A field you won’t be playing on if I have anything to do with it.”

“Well you don’t.”

That’s _funny_ , Zayn laughs. “I do.”

Liam pushes his chair in and wipes crumbs from his mouth. “I was asking you ‘cause I thought you’d tell me the truth. Simon already–”

Zayn makes it around the table in record time, socked feet moving _moving moving._ Until Liam’s face is in his hand, chin dimpling between his fingers. “Simon already did _what?_ ”

It’s gone. Earlier—it was a trick of light; a ruse to create pity and hack down the trunk of Zayn’s judgment. Liam’s palm catches Zayn’s chest, rises and falls with his breathing, fingers simmering the fire, putting it out until the only thing left standing between them is stale air and confusion. “Simon already told me you weren’t a killer.”

More stale air, this time from Zayn’s lungs. A sigh falters his grip on the strong bone of Liam’s jaw. “Then why are you busting my balls about this, Li? Mind your own business.”

“He told me you were a _soldier._ ”

Another sigh, Zayn’s hands fall to his waist now. One that’s not as small as he remembers. Yet the person it’s on, yeah, still just as annoying. “It means the same–”

“I know what it means.” He’s poking Zayn’s chest, knocking the breath out of him with one touch. Because Liam follows orders, too. Liam doesn’t hold rebellions. Liam listens to Zayn. He does what he’s told. “And I know that Simon already told me I was old enough. Yes, to get killed. I’m _fourteen_.”

“Fourteen isn’t shit.”

It’s an actual being of anger; irritation that rears its head, snarls and pulses to clutch at Liam’s sweater and _yank._ Drag him up the stairs and down the hallway, dripping with harsh words of venom and malice. He’d throw away the key without blinking. Zayn wouldn’t hesitate to leave Liam there until he was old enough to be making decisions of his own. And then, if he came out all still bumbling on with this nonsense, Zayn would push him back into the room.

He’d hate Zayn. Never speak to him again. But that, Zayn can live with. He can handle. As angry as Liam would be, a dead person can’t give the silent treatment.

“I’m going with him tomorrow to Uncle Bobby’s.”

Uncle Bobby’s means guns. It means knives and no footie balls and no virtue. It means armored SUVs and Sedans with gun shelves. Uncle Bobby’s house, as nice and beautiful and big as it is, holds nothing but ugliness from the maroon carpeting to the cheaply plastered walls. Uncle Bobby’s means nothing good, not for Zayn. Not for Liam. “I’ll break your fucking legs,” he threatens, empty. Zayn knows he’s already lost. “Try going somewhere with someone wheeling you around. It won’t be me; I’ll tell you that for fucking _sure._ ”

“He’s giving me a weapon tonight when he gets home.”

And he’s smug, bastard. _Fucking—_ Zayn can’t do this.

“Fine.” Liam can think he won, can smirk and stew in his pride all night long. Can rot here with his leftovers at this very table, but he’s not _dying._ Not on Zayn’s watch. And he’s not going to the hellhole that is Bobby Alfazio’s living quarters, either. “You signed your fucking death warrant, you know that? Goddamn smart ass. Sealed your own fate.”

He rips himself away, doesn’t care for the doe eyes anymore, knows now he’ll watch the life seep out of them one day. Or vice versa. And if he should go first, body surrounded by old enemies and new friends and a truckload of flowers to appease the priest who will be a dead second too late—Liam will have to live knowing why. No mystery, no hole he can fill with blissful ignorance and a wife and a puppy. That’s all he’ll see when he looks at Liam from now on, so he’d rather not.

He’s at the door, then the stairs. Liam’s following. Always following. And he’s yelling now. “You signed yours, too!”

Zayn doesn’t raise his voice, looks at Liam from the banister, curls his fingers around the rail and keeps walking.

“Just because I’m going to hell doesn’t mean you should follow me there, Liam.”

**/////**

“You don’t approve.”

Zayn doesn’t look up, doesn’t take his eyes off the screen of his computer. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

“Watch your mouth.” Simon comes in. He should be able to, he hands over the cash to the bank every month. It’s his house; Zayn has never once denied him that. “Liam’s in his room refusing to come out. All I can hear through the door is mumblings of your name.” The bed creaks under Simon’s weight, Zayn still doesn’t look at him— can’t fucking bear it. He continues to scroll through his browser, takes notes occasionally while Simon sits there, words failing him. “He thinks you’re upset with him.”

“Well, he’s wrong.”

Simon doesn’t understand, he wouldn’t. “If you’re not upset, than what–”

“I’m not upset, I’m pissed the fuck off.”

“Son–” Zayn stands up for the second time tonight, desk chair spinning. “Sit down, Zayn,” he warns. “I’m not dealing with your temper tonight.”

Zayn’s hands grab at his findings, papers slipping through his hands. Some float to the ground but Zayn assures Simon has enough in his lap to grasp the point he’s attempting to make. “Funeral costs,” Zayn jabs at the papers. Jabs and jabs. And there’s a hole now in them. He still points and pokes. “Those are funeral costs. The ones you’ll have to pay. Because the boss pays, right?”

“You know we don’t say shit like that around here.” Simon’s on edge, and he always is. His eyes scan the room, like they’re listening _right now_ , Simon’s peculiar as if someone is going to bust the door down because Zayn spoke too freely. No, but if the London Bureau wants Simon, they’ll have to try a lot harder than that. “You never know who could be listening.”

“I sure as fuck hope no one was listening when Liam asked me if I was a fucking _murderer._ ”

Simon releases a sigh, and then a pinch just to the bridge of his nose, stress evident in the hard lines of his body. Signs of grief and awareness of errors.. A sign that he’s a fucking _idiot,_ and he’s aware of his mistakes. “He didn’t.”

“He did.”

“Liam has to do something—he knows Zayn. He’s a smart boy.”

Zayn doesn’t want to hear this, wants to hear a verbal termination. Wants Liam’s purity to be ensured with words straight from the horse’s mouth.

He picks up a sheet of paper, scans it for a cost. A lump sum. “If anyone gives that boy a gun with any purpose other than shooting fucking rats and squirrels, I’ll rose ‘em.” Simon takes him serious then, sees this as more than a tantrum. He stands up straighter. “Give him the books. Teach him how to be a snake. Let him sit in on a negotiation every once in a while. You put a gun in his hand—goddamn dirty Bobby Al-what-the-fuck-ever teaches him how to conceal a weapon— I’ll kill _everyone_. That includes me and Liam. I’m not letting some prick put a bullet in his skull because Liam got a little _curious._ ”

“Are those threats?”

Zayn doesn’t look him in the eye, can’t tamper down the irritation with himself at the levels of disrespect he’s stooping to—directing horrible remarks to the only father he’s ever had on behalf of the boy in the next room.

So Zayn walks out, heads for the door, sidestepping Simon’s outstretched arm. “I’m nineteen and I’ve hit more men than Pauly Verdonili. I’ve known how to work a gun since I was fucking _eight._ I can shoot a hair off of Doug Pertile’s head from across the bar.” He still doesn’t look. Doesn’t know if these are the last words he’ll ever speak. But he’ll speak them to save Liam’s life. Again. “Liam’s fourteen and he’s the only thing I fucking breathe for. I’d shoot for him, too.”

“Zayn.”

“And I don’t fucking miss.”

**/////**

“I _hate_ you.”

“Hate me while you’re breathing, kid. Pass the butter.”

**/////**

_Run. Run, run—as fast as you can, run._

Zayn does, eats up the ground in front of him and does not turn around. Nor does he listen to the sound of her skin, sizzling— _burning._ He refuses to smell it out of strong desire not to, ever. _Mum,_ she’s his mum. She’s shoving responsibility into Zayn’s hands, the cupboard that hid them burning away until they’re trapped and her arms reach out to catch the framing that’s preventing their standing avenue of escape. It’s too late to wait for a savior. Zayn has to be that, has to scamper to an exit, bundle of joy in his arms.

_I love you._ They always love you before they leave you, before something comes and takes them away. She loves Zayn. He thinks she was the first, the first to love him. She loves Zayn, and she wants him to save himself.

It’s hot and it burns and he’s screaming. Doesn’t know what he’s screaming, just knows that he is.

_I love you, I’m sorry._

Zayn hasn’t the time for apologies, can’t understand them right now. Basic instincts are all that he knows. _Run—_ running, he can handle. _I’m sorry,_ he cannot. When Zayn breathes the temporarily fresh air, the split breath of clarity before recollection hits his nose, he sighs. And sags, he also sags. Zayn runs farther, distances himself from the fiery existence of his old home and crashes to the ground, knees first. It’s still intact, his responsibility _—the baby—_ it’s still safe. That’s all that matters.

Then there’s that _bitch_ —pardon his language. His very own adult language, Zayn’s twenty-year-old mind taking over his dreamt up five-year-old body. But _that bitch_ is there in all her lack of glory. A mirror of him; eyes, nose, cheeks. She’s there, hair blowing around her face with her smile intact, inviting Zayn to be smiling, too. Flashes of teeth predicated with the notion that Zayn should be happy for anything else other than being alive. Like he didn’t just watch his mother ash her way into an early grave, the memory an aftershock that leaves a scar somewhere under his newly developed bravado.

_Come closer,_ he wants to say. Tries to say. _Fucking come here._ But again, Zayn’s voice won’t work, won’t let him scream and shout and yell at her. Tell her to leave him the fuck alone. And she runs too, eventually. Takes off into the night as the dream takes him to Simon’s arrival, and Zayn climbs into the car with Liam in his arms.

He still looks back, tries to see her again. She’s standing dumbly in the middle of the fucking road. She’s stood there, waving this time. And it’s odd, because she never waves. Never does. And now she is, little hand moving back and forth, creepy fucking smile still intact. This time, she’s not smiling, she’s _laughing._ Cackling at Zayn and his defeat, his only victory of the night a wailing infant buckled beside him. Waving and laughing. Waving and laughing.

And _laughing._

Waving and laughing.

“Bitch!”

Zayn sits up in a cold sweat, arms strapped around his chest—wiry, with muscles forthcoming. They’re throwing Zayn back into the mattress, tucking his hands back at his sides from where they were swinging in front of him. He doesn’t know why he would do that, doesn’t make a lick of sense. But Liam is there, whispering into his collarbone like Zayn is a fucking child that needs reassurance—he’s _not._ “Zayn, shh. I’ve got you, Zayn.”

Zayn pushes him off—he’s older now, Liam. He can’t shake Zayn awake and coddle him, not anymore. “Get the fuck off me.” He sits up again and Liam follows.  Zayn holds up a hand, steadies it against the newly defined indents of Liam’s fucking chest. “I mean it, leave me alone. I’m fine, it was just another—”

“Did you see her again?”

Zayn doesn’t ask which her—knows Liam is talking about the girl. He nods, his legs swinging over the end of his _—their—_ bed and he struggles to find the switch to take them out of the darkness. “I did, but it’s not—”

“No buts,” he says. Zayn’s not used to the irritation, should be—because Liam’s teenage hormones are the worst he’s ever had to encounter—but he’s not. He rearranges Zayn, shuffles him back until Liam’s a hot line at his shoulders. “Come back to bed, okay? Just—let me calm you down. Zayn—”

Liam touches him again, all Zayn can feel is the tingle in his touch, the sparks shooting through his side as Liam’s fingers linger—drag—all the way down to Zayn’s side, that one side. Everything is singed. Zayn tries to shake him off, but _fuck_ if fifteen doesn’t make Liam persistent. “I don’t need to calm down. I need you to back off. You’re not a kid anymore.” Zayn twitches at the breath on his spine, neck turning. “I don’t even know why you’re in here, Liam. You have your own room.”

“Don’t do that.”

Liam’s voice paints a picture of hardness Zayn doesn’t want to imagine. Zayn singularly wants to wet his throat with a glass of water and slip back under his covers, alone. That’s what he _needs_ to want. Zayn unties the knot in his throat and hopes his words don’t sound as strained as they feel. “I’m going to the kitchen.”

He unsticks his body from Liam’s and stands, runs his own fingers over his scar, closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds and tries valiantly to scrub the guilt and shame and _disgust_ from his skin. Tries to repress the images of Liam—in all his teenage glory—rolling around in Zayn’s sheets, hair mused and skin sticky.

Sleeping in the same bed, sharing that space and intimacy when it has the power to mean so much more the older Liam gets—that’s one thing. Wanting Liam, wanting to touch and kiss and nip at him, that’s another thing completely.

Liam’s a fox in the night, trying to capture Zayn’s sense of responsibility when he speaks from the shadows. “You know why I’m in here.”

Zayn does and he hates it. He hates that he knows and he hates that Liam knows.

But adolescent hormones fade away, what he has with Liam—the camaraderie and trust and history—that’s too precious to toss aside because Liam woke up fucking horny.

Water sounds like the perfect dose of clarity, and Zayn walks away to get it, leaving Liam where he lay. Harsh doesn’t begin to define the parameters of Zayn’s tone. “Be out when I get back, I mean it.”

“No you don’t, but whatever.”

**/////**

Even at seventeen, in all his grown up stature, Liam still falls prey to little American television shows about boys named Dexter hosting experiments in a laboratory. They lie together and watch it, participating in the events of normal people with normal lives. Pretending like Zayn doesn’t clean a gun at the end of the day, and Liam doesn’t stand beside him, throwing mock paper trails into a fire. 

For now, they’re just skin. Their world is the skin of their naked chests and the cotton of the boxer shorts loose around their waists. Saturday is the day of rest, the third Saturday of every month, they lie like this, up to their hips in covers and slathered to their elbows in tiny bumps—chills that come from letting the sheets fall in favor of grabbing extra popcorn and giving the other a peak. A small show of skin that they won’t display outside this room.

Because that’s dangerous—Zayn exposing all of those vital organs—namely his heart.

“That little show with the fairies, the married ones, you know?” Zayn waves his hands, pretends Liam doesn’t let the brown of his eyes roam over his torso as he talks, drops crumbs all over his stomach because Cheeto’s are a delicious food made for people who didn’t have an aversion to cheddar fingers. “Where the buck-toothed kid has that bitch sister?”

Liam laughs, reclines farther back onto his the mountain of pillows at his back and—oh. Oh, he uh. He puts his leg on top of Zayn’s, lets their thighs touch. Casual, though. It’s a casual movement. “Are you talking about The Fairly Odd Parents?”  

Zayn’s fingers snap, better his fingers than his resolve. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “That show is way better than whatever the fuck this is. Has more fundamentals and shit.” 

Liam sinks down farther, looks back at the open shades of their _—Zayn’s—_ room and pulls the covers farther over his body. He’s still laughing, because Liam’s a fuck-ass in that way. “Cartoons don’t have fundamentals, Zayn.”

“Not true,” Zayn’s head shakes this time. He watches the outline of his shadow move across the room. “Definitely not true. I raised you on cartoons, Li. Ones you didn’t pay any fucking attention to, but I’d like to think you learned some pretty valuable stuff from Dora the Explorer.”

“Yeah, what happens when I trip on acid.”

Liam fidgets again, lets the wires of his lashes paint his cheeks until they’re fluttering all the way open and his face is red. He laughs, because he’s being courteous, but he just keeps looking at Zayn, only content—Zayn knows it from the stretch of a smile on his face—when Zayn is looking back just as hard. He only snaps out of watching Liam put his hands between his thighs to get warm, rubbing up and down and shivering for special fucking effect. So then—and only then—Zayn carries his eyes back to safer pastures. Because he doesn’t need to see that.

“Also—” he clears his throat, coughs a few times. Liam looks amused, Zayn doesn’t see _anything_ funny. “Also, Johnny Bravo taught me how to pick up chicks. _Woah, momma_. I’ve gotten laid six times just because I _know_ that reference.”

“Ever try it on a guy.”

“Stop.”

Before, when the sun was drawing closer to disappearance and Zayn’s judgment was foggy, he was vulnerable. To those eyes, and that pout, and that awful set of hands attempting to worm their way over to Zayn’s thighs. The case is not of that, not now. He sits up straight, moves his leg onto his side of the bed and holds Liam with a stern look. Always showing his cards early, that one, and losing every time still.

Zayn doesn’t have time to participate in any of the games starting their assent in the back of Liam’s fucked up little mind.

He knows he’s fucked up, Zayn. There’s always been something wrong with him. The fire, the guilt, the killings, the joy. So when the lust came, he fell in line with it. Knew it was a product of his screwed up development. But Liam, coming onto him, making forward advances when Zayn’s been his caretaker all this time.

It’s sick.

Zayn can’t let himself drown in any more guilt.

If Liam wants to be even more messed up between the ears, he can do it alone.

“Boy, it must be awesome looking at me, being yourself.”

And—what the fuck? “I _—what?_ ”

Zayn doesn’t know what he chokes on, just knows that it happens. Liam rolls on his side, stretches the length of his body to sit up on his elbow. His head falls onto his hand and Zayn’s just fucking _laughing._ The tone of his voice, the dip and drip of drawl, it sounds ridiculous coming from Liam with his rumbled hair and pink skin, nestled between Zayn’s sheets with a strange fucking lift of his eyebrow.

“That was horrible,” Zayn sputters between gasps for breath, falling back onto the bed himself, inconspicuously close to Liam—because he takes up so much fucking space as of late. Zayn frowns when Liam’s free hand swoops down to poke at his chest, then just rests there. Doesn’t move, remains a firm source of heat against Zayn’s pectoral. He looks over, catches Liam staring, and Zayn frowns even more. “You didn’t even say it right, you know?” It’s quieter. The room has gone soft after Zayn’s giggles— _laughter_. He doesn’t giggle. Zayn catches the web of fingers that is Liam’s hand, spreads them out innocently and uses the pad of his finger to follow the lines in Liam’s palm. “Man, it must be great to be you, lookin’ at me.”

Zayn’s drawl is much better, if his opinion is called into question. Much more natural, seeing as Zayn’s actually used that line before in jest. Skin warms between them and it must work. Liam’s eyes fall to Zayn’s smiling face, and he gravitates his chest to the side of Zayn’s body. He tries and fails to cover this with a bubble of faux laughter, but Zayn doesn’t buy it. “Yeah, it kinda is.”

Zayn doesn’t move away, doesn’t lash out and set Liam right on his axis. Further, he moves in further, gets closer. Never once does he release Liam’s hand. “Why do you do that?”

“Do wh—”

“You’re not stupid.” Zayn supplies, pinching the back of Liam’s hand and watching the last light of the day draw shapes of orange and pink onto the structure of bone and flesh in between Zayn’s fingers. “You do know I’m twenty-one, right? I shouldn’t even be here like this, not with you.” Tracing, tracing, he traces. “I don’t understand why you want to make it harder for me by doing _that._ ”

Liam’s head falls in fragments of a second, slowly descending in the molasses of the atmosphere until his previously bended arm is extended and his head is pillowed on the soft curve of muscle lying beside Zayn’s head. He puckers the kiss of their childhood, the one often gifted by Zayn to calm the racing mind of the toddler in his arms. And he leaves it in the shape of another assault of lips at Zayn’s temple, then again at the peak of his cheekbone. Those particularly kisses hold no familiarity; they’re a lukewarm press of lips that show the significant stray of the ones in their wake.

“I can only make it harder if it’s already hard,” Liam whispers.

Like in a dream _—a nightmare—_ Zayn’s mouth is dry. His throat works, but his lips are unmoving. There’s truth buried between the greediness of his words. All Liam wants is want. Needs that reciprocation that Zayn isn’t sure he can give. But denying it, that’s not a clear option either. Dark—everything is dark—and Zayn only opens his eyes to light when Liam stills his hand, stops the aftershock of legitimate fear and draws Zayn towards him. He bounds Zayn with arms and legs and anchoring kisses to his ear, and discontinues the tremors running from Zayn’s lips to his toes.

“I don’t want this to be hard at all,” Zayn admits, the confession shocking more breath back into his lungs, breathe he warms over Liam’s skin. Breath he replaces with the smell and feel and touch of Liam. “Liam, I don’t want this to be hard. Not for us.”

There’s a better line, one that will mesh easier into the pages of a fairytale, unfortunately Zayn doesn’t have it. He doesn’t know what it even could be, but wishes he did so he could give Liam a better proposal of sorts. To Liam, who’s given Zayn everything he was never supposed to want. What Zayn can give him, though, is himself. That’s all Zayn has, all he’ll ever posses, not counting the temperate body around his.

“Then it won’t be.”

And it’s not. Really, it’s not.


	2. i wanna know what it'd be like to find perfection in my pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between this chapter and the previous one, there's a time jump of approximately seven years.

**/////**

“Ten.”

Zayn stops—lets a line of spit drag from Liam’s dick back to Zayn’s lips. It’s sticky and bitter and a little thick, the mixture of saliva and come on his mouth, and _in_ his mouth. He’s anxiously wearing holes into the thin, terribly patterned rug from where he’s kneeled on the ground. The floor moves beneath Zayn’s knees, the sensation of being afloat making him hard in his trousers, the idea of being free of gravity and responsibility making something tug in his stomach.

But that’s a thought to drink in at another time. The velvet of Zayn’s tongue darts to lick the tip of Liam’s cock, the satisfaction of Liam’s tensing fingers settling somewhere amongst his nerves and determination. Zayn’s tongue find the corner of his mouth. “ _Would you—_ shut the fuck up, okay? I’m _busy._ ”

Liam’s smiling down and Zayn swears _—fucking swears—_ all the pleasure in the world sits at the pit of Liam’s stomach when the elevator lurches and Zayn all but falls mouth-first into his hips, bottom lip grazing the head of his dick. Leaking— _weeping_ — with pre-come, red and round and disappearing into Zayn’s mouth.

Whirring and wheezing envelops him. The sound of metal on metal and skin on skin surrounds him—and _fuck—_ Liam looks ridiculous from this angle. Zayn can see the outline of his nose if he looks directly up, holds his breath for a second too long because he doesn’t have time for gimmicks or tricks or anything other than wrapping his lips around Liam and _sucking._ Hollowing his cheeks and tugging, never letting up.

“Nine, Zayn. We have nine left and— _shit,_ that again.” Liam’s chest flutters, quick spurts of breath escaping while Zayn peeks up to watch. Watches him wind a hand up his torso and wind around the matte fabric of his tie—the horrible one that Zayn promises to throw away when he gets the chance. “With your tongue,” Liam pants, fingers popping, stretching, and flexing close to Zayn’s skull. “Do _that_ again.”

Zayn doesn’t need instructions. No directions are necessary for him to know how to get Liam to make that sound a million times over. The one from the back of his throat—a moaned growl that tells Zayn he’s doing a well-enough job by stroking up his thighs and letting his nails scratch and squeeze in the places that make Liam squirm.

“How many floors?”

Zayn only lets up for a second, forces Liam’s legs apart and licks a stripe down his hand. Balls aren’t Liam’s thing—he wants his dick sucked, that’s all—but fuck that, though. He’s not coming fast enough. But he wants to, he does. Zayn can feel it in the tightness of his thighs and the heaviness of his sack. But Liam’s anxious, jumpy with good reason. And Zayn nearly loses a handful of hair out for it.

“I don’t.” Stutter, stutter, stutter. Liam is _wrecked,_ voice hoarse, and words bitten off with a flash of teeth at the skill of Zayn’s hands. “Stop playing around. I pressed all of them. I pressed all of the buttons. Then the twenty-first a bunch of ti-times. Zayn, you have six floors.” Another yank of hair, and Zayn’s gonna fucking kill him when Liam when he makes it off his knees, _slaughter_ him. “Just get on with it, okay? Fu- _fuck._ ”

A kiss, Zayn gives him a kiss. Lets his tongue flatten and lap in the aftermath of his open-mouthed smooches. Zayn’s hand tightens around Liam and he jerks with determination, trying successfully to bob without choking from the rough twitch of Liam’s hips.

“Mm,” Zayn hums, licks at the underside of Liam’s cock, listens to the elevator slow and the stop. But Zayn isn’t held to those standards, time doesn’t exist for them right now. “Looks like we’re here.”

“Looks like you lost—”

Zayn finds it, uses the slick on his hands to ease the temporary breach. It’s quick, though. Barely noticeable until he’s already done it because Liam has a terrible attention span. All Zayn can smell and feel and _see_ is the musk and silk of the down at Liam’s pelvis. He buries his nose in the curls around Liam’s cock—tries to and succeeds, feels the strain in his throat and jaw and cheeks. A twist of his wrist and a flick of his tongue, and then he’s fucking gagging down Liam’s come with no prior warning. Not even a yelp.

A dead man walking, that’s _all_ Liam is.

The door slides open, and they must look absurd—Zayn squatting there, spitting out a load of come onto that god-awful paisley carpeting with Liam pulling up his trousers and smiling. Never stops smiling, the fucker. “Wipe that grin off, you _suck._ ” Zayn uses his sleeve to wipe his mouth, regrets it not even a minute later because this is Gieves. Vintage Gieves & Hawkes, at that. “Not even a five second tick, just—you’re seventeen again, I swe-”

They erupt into the hall, clothing still disheveled. “Seventeen again, nice movie.”

“If you start quoting Zac Ecron—”

_“Efron.”_

“—I’ll cut your tongue out of your head.” They walk down the hall, large abstract pictures lines with too-shiny golden frames. Numbered doors lie on both sides, same gold and shine. A short and stocky woman rolls a cart past them—Zayn smiles, that’s it. Not too much and not too little, camouflaging his self into the short term of her memory. Zayn shakes out his sleeves and rolls his shoulders. “High School Musical is the worst thing to happen to a man.”

“The fact that you know Zac is in HSM _and_ Seventeen Again makes you just as much of a pussy.” Liam doesn’t know his own strength. Or if he does, it doesn’t show in the offhanded shove he issues to Zayn that has him stumbling into space. “Crap, my bad.”

Zayn doesn’t vocally accept his apology, continues to let the rubber of his loafers pad the hall. “Whatever. Just look out for the laundry shoot by room—”

“214?” Liam pulls open the shoot, reels it back as far as it will go, peeks down and nods at Zayn. “It’s here.”

Zayn hands over his jacket after he peels it from his shoulders, visibly cringing when Liam haphazardly throws it over his arm, paying no attention to the precious care that Zayn had previously shown. “Be careful with that, you animal. Just because you don’t give a shit what you wear doesn’t mean you have to wrinkle my fucking suit jacket.”

He unbuttons his shirt cuffs and folds his sleeves to the bend of his elbows. Zayn looks at the back of the shoot door himself and sticks his hand inside to extract the Glock 22 waiting for him. Zayn sends up a prayer of thanks that his over-shirt wasn’t soiled in the process and checks for a proper magazine before tucking his gun at the hip of his trousers. It’s in plain sight—out in the open for anyone to see—but they’ve got ten more steps to take before they’ve reached their destination. It doesn’t seem like a big risk.

Plus, he’s not putting that fucking jacket on for all his colleagues to point and speculate at.

Liam snorts. Zayn doesn’t bother turning around to determine the cause. “The Scorazzi brothers totally aren’t going to notice the gun by your dick.” Pat, pat, pat. Liam never takes long to catch up to Zayn’s strides regardless of the head start he gets. Zayn feels fingers wrap around his arm just before he fists his palm to rap on the door. “Hey, wait for a second, hmm?”

“What?”

But Zayn knows, always knows.

“Language, please?” Beyond that door are two close-minded men, ones that Zayn doesn’t ever plan on telling that he happens to like dick, not even if it is the norm. No, no. Liam leans his chin against Zayn’s shoulder and the world slows down for a while—one second, a flash. And the breath on Zayn’s neck is both calming and annoying him. Their fingers play, and Zayn doesn’t even know how they meet, they’re just apart one second and interlocked the next. Liam kisses the side of Zayn’s cheek. “Let me do all the talking, okay? You’re just here to make sure I don’t mess up and get my head blown off.”

“Never.”

“Jim and Jason are easy prey,” Liam whispers, pauses for a moment and talks again. “I can go in and get ‘em and we’ll be out in time to go catch a re-run of The Sopranos before we have to go back to your place and eat with Simon and Perald.”

“Perrie,” Zayn corrects, the sprout of a smile unable to hide when Liam is so close.

A bite and a kiss, and also a hint of jealousy that exudes from Liam’s pores makes Zayn smirk and lean back.

“Whatever, I don’t really care what her name is.” Liam laughs at the shivers running through Zayn; at the jolts of shock and pleasure coming from the ghosting of his fingers across Zayn’s thinly veiled ribs—then the front of his shoulders. And his neck before he readjusts the lines in Zayn’s tie and kisses his ear, busying himself with controlling the damage he did to the ink of hair on Zayn’s head. “Right now I want to go in there and sort out deals that will make Si extra money. And if it all goes well, I’ll definitely return the favor you just gave me.”

The angle makes it weird for Liam to crane in for a kiss, but it’s not the only abnormality. The contrast of Liam taking care of Zayn _—that—_ is what throws him for the loop, tilts Zayn’s world and lets the ground shake. The pulse in Liam’s lips tugs him down, stops the world from turning so fast when the pad of Liam’s thumb does gentle things to Zayn’s jaw that gives him a craving for more.

All Zayn ever wants is more, but that’s all he’ll never take.

“That reminds me,” he stands on his own this time, allows the ridge of his back to push Liam away of his own accord. The air is still light, lighter even. Because there aren’t any promises looming over them when it’s just sex. Mouth to cock, and other fun things. Zayn turns, purses his lips and taps at the breast of Liam’s unsoiled jacket. “You owe me a fifty and a dry-cleaning bill. You came before the doors opened and you pulled the hose before I—”

“Pulled the hose?” More snorting from Liam, even less amusement from Zayn. “I’ll give you the fifty, no problem. Maybe throw in a tip because _fuck,_ Zayn.” He smiles and Zayn wants to prod the crescent of Liam’s lips with the end of his tongue. Liam shakes his head. “But I’m not paying to get one of your monkey suits cleaned. You knew what you were getting into when you wrapped those pretty little lips—”

Zayn opens the door, because he doesn’t have to stand here for this shit. Liam laughs and follows him inside, not another word spoken between them.

Jim and Jason are sitting there, both of them eyeing the gun at Zayn’s hip and nodding at their arrival. There’s a shake of hands and a transferring of greetings before Liam is sitting, the Scorazzi twins following. Zayn goes to the open door.

“Okay, boys.”

He closes it, leaves the stench of his anger and regret and hatred outside. Zayn’s façade falls into place, his face molting and outside persona shedding. He smiles, and sometimes Zayn wonders if this is who he really is. If the business bread side of him is what he was created to be, and everything else is the lie. Zayn shakes that off, doesn’t care. His smile is back and the door is closing in front of him.

“Who’s ready to make some money?”

And it begins.

**/////**

The light of the afternoon casts a sequence of shadows and sun across his face. Zayn stretches, lets out a yawn. The long windows of the hotel lobby cater to Zayn’s interest in the bustle of the city without all of the noise. He picks a chair, not waiting for Liam to follow behind. The weight of his gun is absent at his hip as he bends at the waist, arms fanning out over the embroidered arms of the hotel’s astute piece of furniture.

His fingers trail. Run, run, running over the sewing, appreciating the intricacy of each stitch. Zayn nods, silently welcoming the contemporary touch to an otherwise modernly decorated town. He wiggles, tests the comfort and smiles at the stiffness of the cushion. Beauty at a price. Wonderful.

Liam flops _—sloppy—_ into the seat adjacent to Zayn. Zayn follows the frown that paints itself on Liam’s face.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” Liam’s restless in his seat. Zayn raises his nose at the scene Liam’s complaints make. “It’s not very comfortable. And it’s ugly. I thought this hotel was high end or something like that.”

Twenty-three and still a child. “It’s called Interior design,” Zayn snaps, fingertips massaging his temples. “Did you call Louis to come pick us up? I don’t want to be waiting here all day.”

“Well, I think it’s ugly. Don’t push your weird fashion shit on me.”

“Swear jar.”

“Fuck you.”

“And again.” Zayn finds his source of amusement in the twist of Liam’s carefully innocent façade. Loves when his pretence for no cussing is overridden by the short bursts of annoyance he has with Zayn’s unique taste. “But really, I need you to make sure Louis is here before four o’clock. Michael is coming back from Simon’s at five and I don’t want to be here when he finds out you hustled his son’s for forty more percent then Simon requested.”

“I can’t help it if I have a way with words. Liam’s words come with a toothy grin. One that Zayn finds fitting on him. It’s not untrue—his wit is unmatched. After it was made clear to him that he would never touch a weapon, he was forced to make one. Not that Zayn needed Liam to be any more of a smart-mouth than he was at fourteen, but it worked. It made him an asset. “Simon told me to split the Scorazzi’s shy ten-ninety. That’s laughable, and I don’t really think he meant it. It’s just a rose and stem ring, twelve bouquets a week only makes a little under—”

Roses and stems, roses and stems…Zayn thinks—hates the fucking lingo Liam uses in public—would much rather get caught talking about guns and bullets in the public eye than keep up with the pseudo names that are not only ridiculous but fucking demeaning. “Roses and stems are guns, right? Stems are guns, roses are bullets. Or is it the other way around?”

Liam rolls his eyes and Zayn assumes he’s correct. Zayn looks on behind Liam, catalogues the tourists and locals passing by, and tries to determine which are which.

Liam’s sighing attracts Zayn’s attention again, only for a second. “Yes,” he whispers. And Zayn wonders if it’s possible to whisper and yell simultaneously. Thinks maybe Liam could pull it off. “But it does me no good to come up with these things if you announce what they are in the middle of a hotel lobby. _Jesus,_ Zayn.”

Zayn crosses his legs at the knee, settles his hands and blatantly ignores the stain on the cuff of his jacket. One that Liam will be paying for. A figure catches his eye outside, but Zayn lets the silhouette of a red coat escape his eye sight, pays no mind when he sees it again. Two is a coincidence.

Liam beckons him with a distraught wave of his hands. “You know, if you’re not going to listen to me, I can just go.”

He barely entertains Liam with a scoff, flares his nostrils at the newly present tick in Liam’s leg. “You plan on walking to your flat from here? I doubt your bargain loafers will make it the entire fifteen miles, but you can be my guest.” Liam’s face turns sour; Zayn takes his turn to sigh. “I don’t know why you play your hand at poverty. We pay you more than that.”

“I like being on my own.”

They leave it at that. Zayn doesn’t fancy prodding him any further—knows Liam doesn’t have any interest in carrying on with this conversation, not when it leads to open wounds.

Perrie is there—in their room—in their home. She doesn’t have any significance to Zayn, Liam is aware of that. A patsy, that’s all she is, a means of negotiation at Simon’s hand. Zayn gives her a place in his life and his club and in exchange, she gives them a link to the Edwards’ family. Fun, funds, and no fees, all for keeping a warm spot for a minx-y little Geordie in the guest room. And occasionally, Zayn’s bed.

Tick, and after that, another tick. This time the jolt is in Liam’s jaw and Zayn feels himself draw down the wall of his guise. Red flashes across the window again, but Zayn’s immediately concerned with the red exuding from Liam’s exterior.

“Hey, we can go back to your fucking—” Liam’s exasperation draws up Zayn’s hands in defense. “Freaking,” Zayn corrects, relieved at the playing of a smile in the corner of Liam’s mouth. “Freaking. We’ll go back to the _freaking_ shoebox you _insist_ on calling your apartment. And we’ll watch shitty— _crappy._ Liam, I’m almost thirty, I think I can cuss. Okay. Crappy. We’ll watch crappy television.”

“Being an adult doesn’t give you an excuse to use a curse word every other word.”

The condemnation isn’t very surprising, nor is it amusing. “Don’t I know it.”

Fucking prick. Liam can’t stop that, no. Zayn can say fuck as many times as he wants to in the confines of his own mind.

Red, dashing red. Three is a pattern. What the fu—

“Louis is here, it’s time to go.”

Zayn doesn’t ask how Liam knows this, blindly follows instead, eyes searching the street for heavily dyed wool. It’s no where— _gone_. He thinks he sees it to his left, uses his peripheral to stay on the shade. But it’s lost with the passing of a bus. Zayn pushes Liam forward faster. “Get to the car.”

“What?” Liam’s questioning Zayn and they doesn’t have the time for questions. He speeds up, wishes for a gun right now. _Red, red again._ It’s a girl, with dark hair that Zayn could call flowing, but it’s too fast. Zayn only sees it whip—one direction, then the next. Liam’s size is no longer an obstacle, nor a nuisance. Zayn’s hand is at the top of his arm—dragging. “Let me go, Zayn. I can’t come with you today. Zayn, I have. _Zayn._ ”

Zayn stops only once they’re out of the hotel. They’re exit car is unmarked, large. Louis is parked at the curb and Zayn only has eyes for the handle of the door. _Safety._ Liam has to be safe.

More red runs across the street and Zayn spots half a face this time.

_Show me who you are._

“Get in the fucking car.”

“Zayn, _no._ ”

Liam rips them apart. There’s more red there, colored on the tips of Liam’s ears and the eve of his cheeks. _Get him on the car._ He’s big, but Liam doesn’t know what to do with the extra size he has. Zayn opens the door and verifies Louis’ presence before he dismantles the strength of Liam’s resistance with a firm hand to the collar. “Get in the fucking car or I will _get_ you in the car.” Gritting is bad for the integrity of his teeth, it doesn’t stop Zayn from grinding his teeth together in frustration. “Red jacket, two o’clock. _Fuck,_ she moved. Get in the car, I’m not taking no—”

She’s waving.

There she is—a mirrored effect of all the features Zayn has ever seen staring back at him. The sunlight makes her more beautiful than she should be, paints her in light when she’s nothing but _dark._ A little girl, she is not. No, the light around her is red. Angry red and angry smiles. Angry, fast movements in her arms when she waves. _Red._ Red like the color on her lips and the streaks saturated in the black of her aura.

“Your gun.”

“What?” Zayn wants Liam to stop saying _what._ What is a horrible question with horrible answers. Liam needs to ask _who,_ possibly _why._ But not _what._ “Zayn, what are you looking at?”

She never leaves him, his eyes make sure. The city moves around them and London is kind not to knock them on their backs in the still of their bodies.

“Your gun, I need it,” he supplies, waving his hand and hoping when he still it the pressure of a weapon will be heavy in his palm, because Zayn doesn’t want to see her leave. Never wants to hear who she is because an unsolved mystery is better than one with answers that you don’t like. He wants her dead where she stands, she’s creeping him the fuck out. “Louis, give me your fucking gun.”

“Boss, you can’t shoot someone in broad daylight. Simon—”

Liam is an afterthought, but still there, still present in Zayn’s conscience. In the process of his thoughts because she is a danger, a nightmare come to life. A threat that Zayn is seeing outside the realm of his dreams. She’s real and _alive,_ but not for a second more. All he wants to see is red, more red painted across the pavement at her feet.

“Give me a fucking gun.”

Across the pavement, maybe the tourists walking by.

Zayn’s vision is still tinted with red, and she’s still waving.  

“Zayn, what’s going on?” Liam’s persistent, trying to shake Zayn with worried hands.

Zayn imagines it on a lens, or on a frame. The red of a grown up version of his night terrors. Maybe it would look nice as a streak on a pair of glasses belong to a passerby. Along the knit of a scarf, perhaps. Zayn wants to see _red._

“If someone doesn’t give me something to shoot with, the only person I’m shooting is the both of you.”

Red like the flames she lets him drown in, _red._ Angry like the burn across his side, _warped_. He wants a wound, too. One like his, distorted and textured. In the middle of her eyes, underneath the fringe of her hair, dripping red on the color of her jacket. _Red._

“Zayn, let’s just go.” Liam’s touching him, distracting him. Zayn jerks but never moves his eyes. He can’t stop looking because he may never get this chance again. The world is passing them by and they have a moment. A moment where they exist on the same plane—where Zayn can make out the shine in her teeth and the gleam in her eye. _Red._ But Liam’s still pulling, attempting to haul Zayn away but nothing _—nothing—_ can take this away from Zayn. He wants to watch her suffer. It’s necessary for him to sleep at night. If he wants his to be free of her, once and for all, Zayn needs a gun. “I’ll come back to Simon’s and we can watch whatever you want.”

Like Zayn is one to throw a tantrum over the trivial issue of a film that’s going to flicker across the television and seep into the account of their day, that’s how Liam is treating him. He strays.

“She’s here.” And Zayn’s fist, it’s white. To the bones of his knuckles it’s white. But when he lets go the blood will flood back and he knows what color it will be. Zayn makes a final attempt to convey that to Liam, and is left wondering if Liam will read the scream for help there in his eyes _._ Bets his one and only chance on it—looks him in the eye in favor of watching her hand go back and forth.

Zayn can feel the craze in his shaking hands as they fist into Liam’s shirt, and the reflection of his plea looks broken in Liam’s pupils. “She’s here and you think I want to _watch movies?_ Get me a gun, Liam. She’s killed me a thousand times, she’ll kill us _all.”_

They freeze, and terror—something Zayn promised to never create on Liam’s face—it’s there. Good, he’s getting it. The prize of Zayn’s face is what he holds in his hand—it all happens in seconds. “Who, babe? Who—who’s here? Who is she?”

“Her.”

Zayn points.

At nothing.

She’s gone.

He’s ripping this time, away from Liam and the bulk of the car. He looks this way, that way. Nothing is red. Nothing sans for the hat of the child clinging to his mother’s hip. And the hair of the girl walking up the steps. And the jacket—the jacket of an old man accompanying his wife down the sidewalk. She’s gone.

Gone, gone, _gone._

Liam’s reaching and Zayn is receding. “No. _No,_ _Liam._ I’ve got to go. Let’s just go.”

“Zayn.”

Open goes the door to his transportation and Zayn takes the exit. Jitters, he sees jitters. All in Liam—a replacement of the red. Now he sees yellow. A sick color. Liam’s covered in it, shaking the slightest bit, nothing in connection to the recent events of that—that _bitch._ Zayn thinks. Thinks back on Liam’s behavior. He’s been at it all day. Shaking.

“About that, I have a ride.” Liam shrugs his shoulders in an alternate direction of Zayn’s escape vehicle. Zayn catalogues Liam’s bitten lip and tapping foot. _Lying._

“Whatever.”

“You’re not going to question me?” More teeth, more lies. “Ask me where I’m going?”

“Would you tell me the truth?” Silence is never an answer Zayn wants, not one Liam likes to give. Zayn turns away, uses it as an opportunity to seek her out. _No where._ She isn’t anywhere his eyes can reach. “Louis, drive up the block, will you. I need to make a stop at the house. After that, take me to the club.”

Maybe he can find her.

Maybe she’s real.

She was _there._

“Going to MVP?” Bitter has never suited Liam, not once in his life. He doesn’t display jealousy well, and Zayn can’t say he ever has. “What, need Perrie to comfort you, now?”

“It’s a fucking club, Liam. _Our_ club. I don’t need Perrie, I need a fucking drink.”

**/////**

It goes off—never stops fucking ringing. He does his best to lie very still, never moving. Zayn’s shucked his what's left of his suit and trousers, didn’t think it was the proper attire for a pity party of one. His bed is cold and empty. It’s blue. There’s a lingering, one of expensive perfume and cosmetics and it’s the wrong scent. Zayn’s searching, tossing pillows and sheets and blankets but the trace of musk and aftershave and fairly odd deodorant isn’t there.

Because _he_ isn’t there—and the only remedy is him, isn’t it?

Zayn lies still again, closes his eyes to see his own face. With the added bonus of a curtain of hair and painted lips. Zayn opens and closes them, tries to blink her away but it doesn’t work. When his eyes open to refocus on the ceiling she’s still there and _he_ is not.

“Babe, are you going to get up?”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, irritable with the crusts of sleep in his eyes.

Zayn doesn’t need to sit up to address her, doesn’t view her in any upholding standing to do so. Screwed shut are his eyes once more. He can hear the clanging of her ear decorations, listens to metal settling on wood as she swaps them out. Zayn doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that she’s getting ready. More shuffling—and huffing, there’s huffing—and she’s perching on the bed.

“I’ve left you alone all day, Zayn.”

A hand rests on the exposed part of his chest. He’s not clothed, but a thin sheet retains his modesty. The hand, though, it’s too small. The fingers lack width and length. It’s not heavy enough to anchor Zayn to anything. To hold him down, keep him from floating away. Immediately he dismisses it.

“Is that what you call this, Perrie? Leaving me alone?” He stares back into the sea of her eyes, blue that’s supposed to be warm. _Aren’t blue eyes warm?_ Not calculating—the cold wash of a tide. “I’m tired, okay? I’ve got to be at the club before opening, so just let me have a lie down.”

He doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s exasperated. But he is, and her sigh is more visible than heard. There’s a pout in her lips when she talks, one that could be sexy in someone else’s eyes. “You’ve been lying down all day. Don’t you want to spend time together before my shift?”

Her shift, at Zayn’s club. It’s a laughable excuse, seeing as he’s only been here for a small fraction of the day. She’s got the outfit, pink skin exposed, planes and planes of skin. Hair pulled back into a bow that will be untied later on in the night, when she’s swinging her hips around, dipping her body and batting her eyes. Patrons will tuck singles into the tight straps of her thong that cut into the flesh of her waist. And if she stretches—moves her body at the angle she is right now—they’ll get a peek. A flash of more inviting lips that bumbling men with too much alcohol in their system will thrash to get a look at.

It’s all part of the process. Business, it’s business.

“You should be at the club practicing your routine,” he says, sitting up in bed then standing. No modesty as he walks barefoot to his chest of drawers, searching for a pair of boxers to slip over his hips. “Not here, bothering me.”

Again, it doesn’t require eye contact to witness the irritation in her eyes. _Clack, clack, clack._ She moves over to him, her heels preceding her form. _Ring._ Zayn’s phone, again. He doesn’t know which grates the wires of his nerves more. “My routine doesn’t need any work—”

“Tips say otherwise.”

“Why are you being like this?” Another beep, more ringing. “You know what, be cruel, I don’t care. But would you please answer your phone?”

Sharp is his turn and his tone. Standing before him, Zayn thinks he’s supposed be attracted by the curve of her waist. The jut of her breast. Maybe the strong structure of her face and the soft allure of her skin. Nothing, he gets nothing. Zayn’s fingers frame her chin, tightly—too tight. He eases up, lets the fright seep out of her eyes before he talks. “If you’re so goddamn bothered by it, answer it yourself.”

Detachment ensues and Zayn leaves her standing there. “I will.”

Zayn isn’t sure if he needs a shower, decides he should take one for good measure. Perrie is in his wake, picking up Zayn’s phone and answering haughtily. He sends up a prayer that who ever is on the other end isn’t someone of importance. He rests on the dresser, derails his route to the bathroom and crosses his arms over his chest. Waiting. Always waiting.

“Can I help you?” Silence. “He’s right here, what do you want?” _Liam,_ must be Liam. It shows in the raise of her lip, the distaste on her face. “If he wanted to talk to you, I imagine he would have answered your calls. All one million of them.” Zayn doesn’t care for their bickering—something he’s never understood. Jealousy isn’t a trait that Liam should ever possess. Still, he takes Perrie’s bait given the chance. “He’s actually about to get in the shower. _We._ We’re getting in the shower. So I guess—”

“Perrie, that’s enough.”

Zayn’s grabbing his phone, his feet having taken him across the carpet in an unremembered flash. _He can’t—_ Liam can’t think that. Zayn can’t have Liam thinking he’s doing anything but keeping up pretences with Perrie for the sake of this family and hers. Pretences, and nothing more. “Liam, she’s not taking a shower with me.”

That’s all he has to say, and it’s a mystery. Zayn’s never understood why he needs one line of confirmation from Zayn’s lips. The barrier of trust should already be built. Over the phone, his breathing is hard. Zayn can almost feel it harsh and warm on his neck. _Angry._ “I really don’t care who you shower with, Zayn. As long as it’s—”

“Not her,” Zayn finishes. It can never be her. Anyone else and Liam is fine. Liam can breathe without struggle and follow Zayn to his bed with no repercussions slicing the bond between them. But not her. It can never be her. “I know, Liam. I wasn’t. I just needed to take a shower before going down to the club.”

The sighing is uncalled for, but Liam does so anyway. “Why aren’t you picking up your phone?”

“I was sleeping.” Or, he was trying to.

“Not after this afternoon, you weren’t.” Zayn looks guilty, knows that his brow is twitching and he’s picking at the bed of his nails. Perrie’s gone—she stormed out seconds after handing off the phone to Zayn. He’s alone, Liam in his ear calling his bluffs. “You were avoiding me.”

“You. And Louis,” Zayn decides he might as well start running his water, testing the temperature for his shower. “Dad also called, I think. The Carmine brothers, as well. Don’t flatter yourself, Liam. I was avoiding everybody.”

“Talk to me?”

“I’m fine.”

It’s hot enough, the water. The end of the conversation is upon them. Zayn has nothing else to say. Liam does, however. “Look, I’ve got some things to do before I meet you at the club.”

There’s that jealousy. And if it doesn’t suit Liam, it certainly isn’t befitting on Zayn. It’s possible to stop his hands from shaking, he’s just void of ideas of how to go about it. Rows of teeth trap the tip of his tongue, he hisses. “What things? The same thing you left me to do earlier.”

“You’re the one who drove away.”

“You’re the one who failed to stop me.”

They don’t _do this,_ so Zayn laughs. He declines the offer of an argument and turns to the mirror, cell in hand. Neither of them occupies the same space but Zayn’s lungs can feel the air between then lighten.

“I’ll come over to your place tonight,” Liam says, poses it as a question while Zayn trains his eyes on the reflection in front of him. Works to see himself in the features before him—not her. “I don’t want today to ruin your nights. You’ve been doing so well.” Liam hesitates. Zayn prods at his face while he waits. Always waiting. “I don’t want you to start having dreams—er. Nightmares. You were doing good.”

All Zayn can hear is devastation. As if Liam is the one who gets to shut his eyes to the vision of his feminine doppelganger. The concern does nothing to soothe him, yet he falls. Falls and falls to the voice, can’t picture a time where that will not be the case. “Your place. I’m not saying I need a fucking baby-sitter.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It was implied.”

More sighing, more guilt. Zayn turns away from his reflecting counterpart and turns the shower head, yet to step under it. Liam’s talking again, quieter and more sincere—sews of laughter gone. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Zayn can feel himself smiling, mouth stretched from ear to ear. He thinks Liam can hear it too—knows so, because the reciprocal blushing on Liam’s end is hard to miss. Vision or no, Zayn knows. “Since when did you become the one looking out for me?”

“You saved me first, right?” Right, that’s right. “I’m just returning the favor.”

It’s more than that. It’ll always be more than that.

They share a laugh and a shred of silence that speaks for itself. They know.

Zayn thinks that’s a great time to hang up the phone.

**/////**

Zayn likes order. Organization is the biggest attribute in his personality. No one favors his sharp tongue or his flaring temper but everyone admires the neat corners Zayn makes of his life. You won’t find a wrinkle in his suit at any given time without harsh reason. He runs a clean club—no drugs in plain sight, no girls that aren’t physically and hygienically up to par, and no admittance to anyone that’s not old enough to legally buy a case of beer. Very seldom is a hair on his head out of place, nor do the ones on his chin escape artful trimming.

That’s why he owns a club in the first place. Clean money—it was Liam’s idea. It can be traced, but the influx can also be padded. Meaning he can take the cash from other shies and insert them as outside costs. If he thinks about it too long, it makes his brain hurt. All of Zayn’s information comes from Liam—who runs the book and does other boring shit Zayn doesn’t have time for—and Liam tells him profits from a club can be taxed. And people who pay taxes don’t have to sweat government revenue services.

Zayn also likes his head to be clear so he can make those precise decisions. It’s why he has a driver, Louis. Why he prefers sex over temporary fits of anger that may end with long-term backlash. His wardrobe is sent to him from personal tailors who know his taste in attire. Liam buys Zayn shoes with every paycheck—isn’t forced to, merely does so based on the knowledge that Zayn can’t be bothered to do it himself.

All of this is how Zayn came across Eleanor.

Before her _MVP_ was titled _Z_. Liam was old enough to buy cigarettes but not old enough for an alcohol license. So he could balloon Zayn and Simon’s money into any asset he wanted, but his name couldn’t be on the door without raising questions. Only, Zayn has other things to do, duties handed to him by a father who is also his boss, which doesn’t leave him the means to run a club by his lonesome when his business partner is in school.

Eleanor holds the title of manager—brought in at the last minute as Zayn’s final reprieve. Her Sicilian fire keeps Zayn’s very Italian father very happy. She can run faster in heels than Zayn can in trainers, a feat that comes in handy when she’s dashing across the club floor keeping everyone in line. Eleanor’s eye for theft is one Zayn’s never seen. Those bonuses keep her shape intact and his bartenders honest.

She’s pretty enough—long hair, longer legs. El’s face is enough to draw them in and the sharp jib of her tongue is enough to keep the dense ones away.

And with her assistance—no. No, that’s the wrong word. With her lead— _that’s better—_ she brought them more customers. And apparently she’s more sexually appealing than Zayn is to Lenny down at the Home Improvement store, so she was able to attain new floor tiles and bar tops.

 Eleanor’s cavalier, no-nonsense approach to anything standing in her way of success deters clients from stiffing their waitresses. And the solid determination and ignorance of the word _no_ rooted within her deep home land blood _—fucking Italians and their genealogy—_ well, that turned Zayn a lovely profit with the insanely bright idea of a diner in the back, a club with strippers in the back as well, and happy endings that fatten Zayn’s pockets without a paper trail.

Also, she does paperwork.

Because Zayn hates paperwork.

Granted, with all her hard work she deserved something more than a fat paycheck and free drinks. So when Liam’s birthday rolled around—and he was old enough to serve alcohol even if Zayn would never allow him to pour a drink in his purposefully privileged life—Zayn took his last name, Eleanor’s horrible family moniker, and Liam’s surname and he put them together to make an extremely tacky neon sign name. _MVP_ —Malik, Vincero, Payne. Winner for most accurate and corny naming of an establishment.

But after all this time, three years if Zayn is exact, he’s set Eleanor in a category that goes beyond colleague or friend. She’s part of his family. One he’s made up with odds and ends of people—people that don’t belong anywhere else. They belong together. He feels for them, like he does for himself.

Nothing in this world ties Eleanor to anything else besides the job she has. So she has Zayn. And Liam, Liam has Zayn, too. Because he doesn’t have anything else. And Louis. Zayn knows no one else who would get joy from carting someone from place to place. But he enjoys it, so Zayn puts him in that category. Invites him to Sunday dinners because Zayn is sure he has no other place to gather with people who would die for him at the dawn of a new week.

And that’s better than love, isn’t it? The admission of death for another soul?

Eleanor, Louis, Liam.

Zayn has to say they’re classified as family.

That’s the only category that’s ever needed filling.

And Zayn doesn’t like disorganization.

**/////**

The idea of peace before a storm has always baffled Zayn. He’s sure he’d much rather deal with the raging chaos than be lulled into ignorance by the calming waters before hand. With that being said, _MVP_ before opening always sets him on edge.

Zayn’s used to the door being manned by Paul—a burly man with kind eyes and a house full of children—and the front half of the club throbbing with customers. Girls dancing on each other, and guys trying to find a space in between them. Men prowling for other men. Couples searching for a good time.

Someone always looking for something.

The back—where the action happens—is always insane with activity. The grille is for paying customers only, meaning if you’re eating, you’re giving Zayn and Eleanor’s girls some cash. They don’t dance for free. The true selectivity lies in this part of the establishment. If you don’t look the part, you’re not getting past the abhorrently clichéd rope. But before nine in the evening it’s dead. Zayn can do things like hear himself think and have a conversation without yelling and it’s all very strange.

“I was wondering if you were going to show your lovely face before Primetime.” Never one to actually participate in activities that require manual labor, Zayn finds Eleanor behind the bar pointing out tasks that need to be fulfilled before they open.

Granted, it’s already seven and they should be letting bottom-feeders in for a quick drink before the night crowd fills in. She comes out from behind the counter—shoes nowhere to be seen, and they won’t be until Paul is directed to filter ladies and gentlemen in from outside—and meets Zayn at a standing table.

Zayn tries—fails, but makes an attempt—not to sneer at her bare feet on a floor that can’t be sanitary, no matter how many times she has the cleaning crew run a mop over it.

“That’s disgusting, you know? No one wants to bang the chick at the club who runs around with her heels in her hand.” Zayn itches for a drink, but recognizes it’s uselessness until Jeremy shows up for his shift. No one else can mix whiskey and coke quite the same. He rubs at his nose and searches for two tall stools for them to be seated at. “Also, I was napping. Don’t bitch at me for being a little late. Some of us have things to do during the day.”

“I do things during the day,” she protests, proving herself sufficient enough to push in her own chair, swatting Zayn’s hands away and seating herself with a cross of her legs. Zayn sits opposite her, wondering why they even have standing tables in the first place. It’s got to be exhausting being on one’s feet for such long periods of time. She draws him out of his thoughts with a smack of her lips, which he hates.

“I _sleep._ Sleeping is a thing you do. A verb. An activity. Don’t patronize me. I have to run your club until four in the morning,” Eleanor extends herself to slap at Zayn’s hands when his cuticles gravitate towards his mouth. “Then I have to do paperwork and make sure your boy Liam doesn’t pass out over the books.”

“Basically you get to sleep all day because you’re doing my job?”

She shrugs. “Basically.”

Zayn mirrors her, scoots himself back and chews at his nails because he’s a grown fucking man. “Fair enough, I guess.”

Zayn hands her an envelope, trusts her to work the enclosed cash into the club inventory balances without question. Eleanor takes it with very little grace, opening it and giggling with what Zayn can only assume is glee. “This is like, ten grand. What kind of drugs are you selling, big guy?”

“I’m too cultured to sell drugs. Shoes are my outlet, you know that.” If she’d said that with a more serious tone, Zayn would have her reprimanded. But it’s Eleanor—her mouth precedes her. “Also, don’t spend that all in one place. That’s for booze, or a new pole. A new stage, summat. Spend wisely.”

Snorting is something Zayn’s never viewed as lady-like, so it’s not surprising when Eleanor does so, several times before responding. “You’re asking a lot of me, Malik. But I’ll try.”

“See to it that you do so.”

Rolling eyes have always bothered Zayn. Eleanor does it just to spite him at this point. “As unimpressed as I usually am by your business talk—”

“I don’t have business talk,” Zayn is quick to insist. “I talk the same all the time.”

“No,” her head shakes; Zayn questions the validity of their friendship. “Your business talk is when you speak like this.” Zayn watches her sit up straighter in her chair, make odd body formations with her shoulders, and speak with a lower timbre. “Like you have a stick up your ass, _sir._ See to it that you take this reference—”

“Fuck you.”

She tsks and Zayn starts to appreciate her. Hasn’t a clue why the click of her tongue makes him smile, it just does. Takes his mind away from everything and centers it on the dry wit of the girl sitting before him. “Also very unappealing, so I’ll have to pass. But,” El says, elbow connecting with the wood of the table quite ungracefully. “ _Shit,_ as I was saying. Keep the stick up your ass for a little longer. There are two dudes in my office looking for you.”

Zayn stands quick, is stopped by the small grasp of Eleanor’s hand. “It’s the La Fazia cousins, babe. Andrew and Ross are nothing to go rushing off for.”

He sighs, keeps standing even at the Eleanor’s insistence to be seated. “Fuck, how long have they been here?”

Eleanor straightens the wrinkles in Zayn’s jacket from her seat, realigns his collar and sends him off with a pat. “Only about an hour, but they showed up after five, so I told ‘em they might as well get lost.”

The business rule, yes. Eleanor shrugs and waves over a bartender for a solitary drink while Zayn starts making the walk to their shared offices. “They said it was important and that you’d understand,” she yells at his back. “If they say I charged them a cover price they’re lying! Well, they’re not but I’m trying to run a business here, okay? Not everyone can get in for free.”

Zayn turns the knob, pushes the door open and leaves Eleanor’s yammering behind. At the last second he holds up a five for her to see, allowing Andrew and Ross several minutes of privacy before Eleanor comes to his rescue. “Gentlemen,” Zayn says before his eyes even have the chance to take them in. “It’s nice to see you.”

It’s not. Andrew and Ross La Fazia aren’t worth a mention—not worth explaining. They have an uncle that overheads a street crew overseas, in Jersey, maybe. Like Zayn, they prosper off a connection to a high-end name. _Unlike_ Zayn, Andrew and Ross lack ambition and any real creativity. There’s not a shy that they’ve ever presented Simon or Zayn that had been the least bit original or self-sustaining. No doubt this meeting was yet another excursion for a padded loan.

Andrew—the older of the two—stands and shakes Zayn’s outstretched hand. Weak grip, Zayn notes. Still the same guy. He’s more clean kept than his cousin, Zayn will give him that. The bulk of his shoulders is overrun by the lack of height he stands at. His suit is neat, outdated, but neat. Zayn waves at Ross, the idea of touching any exposed part of the other man’s skin creating unsettling waves in Zayn’s stomach.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Ross is first to speak, always over-eager. He’s a slippery man—greasy personality and oily skin—a personality type that has never bode well with Zayn. Drinks are poured at Zayn’s hand, and he takes the opportunity to look around the office for anything out of place. He hands a Scotch over to Ross; does the same to Andrew. “How have you been, boss man? Enjoying being a Captain?”

Zayn stiffens, swallows a drink of his alcohol. “Ross, you know we don’t speak that openly in public.”

He laughs. Zayn doesn’t like the sound now any more than he did several years ago. “It’s your place, Malik. I think we’re good. You know Simon never cared for all those fancy rules and sh—”

“Then you go deal with Simon.”

The silence that settles, now that is amusing, to Zayn anyway. Something to laugh at. A sense of discomfort that he’ll enjoy standing here near Eleanor’s desk.

“Alright then,” Andrew interjects, the more sensible of the two. Though, that’s not saying much. “Where’s your brother, Zayn. I figured he’d be with you tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

“Liam, your brother?” Zayn’s eyes fall closed, Andrew fails to take that as a sign to cease his rambling. “Tall guy,” he laughs, setting his glass on Eleanor’s entertaining table, sans fucking coaster. “Always seemed to be attached at the hip, the two of you did. I heard he does numbers for Simon, now. Payne,” he snaps, remembering. “Liam Payne, where’s he at?”

“Liam isn’t my brother.”

Zayn’s quick to dispel the common misconception, beadily eyeing the glass wetting the oak of his décor. The clock in the corner ticks, goes by slow enough for Zayn to wish those five minutes would pass just a bit faster.

Andrew is still fumbling for words on Eleanor’s chaise. “Sorry. I just assumed. With Simon being your dad, and you grew up in the same house. I just—”

“I don’t do small talk, boys. Let’s get to it.” Zayn folds his body into a chair, is sure he has his eyes simultaneously on the door and his guests, forever cautious. His arms follow, resting on his knees, hands linking together. Zayn tries to show sympathy with a shrug of his shoulders, isn’t terribly concerned if it doesn’t take. “I’d love to discuss details of trade with you, but I’m afraid the sorts of affairs you wish to speak on aren’t available for discussion past a certain time.”

Zayn is back to waiting. Waiting for them to respond, to speak. Ross shakes his head, not happy. “We have a very sweet deal for you, Zayn. I can give you my word that it’s better than last time. We’re fully prepared.” He must notice Zayn’s unmoved face, presses on more insistently. Hands curled into fists, lips bitten by flashes of teeth. “We won’t let you down. This is a golden—”

“Golden opportunity,” Zayn finishes, sighing. “I’ve heard all of that from you before, guys. And I’m sure it’s a wonderful deal you’ve set up. I’d love to hear it tomorrow morning.”

“We’ve been waiting—”

Zayn has other things to do. He can hear the beginnings of the DJ practicing outside the door, meaning the early drinkers have arrived. Them and the groups of people drinking without the intention of getting drunk.

Zayn stops Ross with a final hand in the air, gaining pause.  “I haven’t seen either of you since you brought my father the idea of human trafficking. And to be frank, the idea of working with someone who has entertained the idea of _people as property_ makes my toes curl at the end of my very, very expensive shoes.”

He’s ignored.

“The hottest coke on the block.” And as if everything that has come out of Zayn’s mouth in the last three minutes went unsaid, he produces a plastic-wrapped structure of white-faced powder. Right there in Zayn’s club. In Eleanor’s office, but still his name is on the door and Zayn has always been very clear about the rules he’s laid out for his production endeavors. “This Cuban fellow we met on vacation, he has the best connections. We bailed him out of jail down there,” Ross explains, oblivious to the pulsing vein that has to be showcasing in Zayn’s neck. “He agreed to give us this great deal. Two hundred bricks for less than—”

The door opens, and thank god. Thank god it does, because Zayn’s hands have developed a temporary tremble. Eleanor is there, with bottles and extra girls and horrible—absolutely horrendous—timing.  

Eleanor’s extended hands are ridiculous, as are the wiggling fingers at the end of her wrist. “Time’s up! But I brought drinks and ladies and— _whoa,_ is that blow?”

Andrew has a sliver of dignity—enough to reach forward and collect his belongings, tucking them back into whatever monstrosity of an overcoat is sitting on his shoulders. Eleanor comes farther into the room and the ladies at her side follow—Jasmine and Caroline, Zayn thinks. Ross blubbers, baffled at the lack of Zayn’s movement when the women make no indication of leaving them alone to finish whatever meeting might have been taking place.

“Babes,” Ross starts—and Zayn can already tell that his word choice is going to be all wrong—clapping his hands together and getting to his feet, hand extending in the direction of the door. “If you’ll just give us a few more moments, we’d love to have you back in here.”

Jasmine is the first to scoff, Eleanor follows. Caroline retains her professionalism, but still doesn’t move.

Zayn moves for them. “No, Ross, I think we’re done for tonight. If you have any other requests or propositions you can make arrangements with one of my father’s girls.” Andrew opens his mouth to interrupt, Zayn’s firm hand in denial signals that what he is about to do would be frowned upon. “It was great seeing you,” Zayn lies, hand out to shake. “Let’s do this again sometime, just during business hours.”

“But—”

Zayn’s forehead shoots up, not a good sign—for them. “Shake my hand, Ross.”

“We’ve been here for hours, it’s not our fault—”

_“Ross.”_

Zayn’s hands wind themselves in the collar of Ross’ coat, yanking him forward, their noses dangerously close to touching. And right now, Zayn doesn’t care about the oil on his skin, only the defiance in his voice. Andrew doesn’t have the gall to stand in defense of his cousin, and Zayn applauds him for that. The prospect of two on one doesn’t faze Zayn, not with the gun in his waist and a very resourceful young lady at his back. Disrespect won’t be tolerated. Not in the privacy of his club or the public view of the street.

“Your first mistake was brining drugs not cleared by me into my fucking club.” The shake of his throat, that’s delicious to Zayn. The fear he sees there settles him. Calms the frayed nerves that have been fizzing in his stomach all the day long. Zayn doesn’t have to see his smile to know it’s sick, he can _feel_ it.

“Your second mistake was not listening to my partner when she said I don’t do business after five in the afternoon.” Zayn’s hands tighten in the loose fabric of Ross’ jacket. “You _can_ come back tomorrow, but I don’t suggest it. I highly doubt I’m going to be in the mood to discuss anything with _either_ of you, any time soon.”

Ross chokes on his own panic, can’t swallow it down with Zayn’s fist in the way. All Zayn does it tighten his grip to prove his point. “And your third mistake was not getting the fuck out of my office the first time I told you.”

The momentum in which Ross falls only amuses Zayn, makes it a little easier to smile. Makes his grin that much more genuine. They spew apologies, but Zayn fails to hear them. Knows they’re only apologetic because Zayn called them out on their bullshit. Zayn knows it’s good to be king, but he also know’s that the higher your rank, the more careful you have to be. The more respect you have to show, because mutiny is a beast that is unable to be tamed once you’ve given it a reason to run wild.

That’s why Zayn doesn’t shoot them in the knee and have himself a laugh as they try to wobble away.

Also, he has appearances to keep up.

“Sorry—I’m- _we’re._ ” More stutters, more chances for Zayn to withhold his laughter. “We didn’t mean to cause you any trouble, Zayn.” Of course Andrew is the one speaking, Ross doesn’t hold a shred of remorse in his face, his body. Anywhere. Zayn can’t blame him—if it were him, bullets would have flown. But it isn’t him, it’s them. Zayn isn’t their equal. “We’ll be going now. You don’t mind if we stay and have a drink, do you? It-it really is a nice place you and your brother have going here.”

“Liam isn’t my—”

“Oh god, you think they’re brothers?” Eleanor ignores the glare of Zayn’s eyes, sticks her finger down her throat for emphasis. “That’s fucking _disgusting._ Do you know the things they do? Like brothers don’t do that shi—get your fucking hand away from my mouth, Zayn, that’s gross.”

“Eleanor, shut up.”

“But fuck yeah, you can drink,” Eleanor allows once Zayn has removed his hand from her fucking loud mouth.

Ross’ sour attitude seems to take a slightly brighter turn when Eleanor gives Jasmine the go ahead to escort them out of the room. Caroline starts to follow, exchanging a look with Eleanor that has her stopping Andrew before they’re gone. “Ah, _no._ Give me your shit,” she interjects, palm open, waiting. “Yeah, hand it over. If you want it back, I’m throwing it in the alley out back at three. I’m not getting busted because you don’t know how to carry a sensible amount of coke with you.”

Eleanor’s hand is still out, waiting for Andrew to hand over the brick of blow hiding away in his jacket.

He does and it’s done. They gather their things and Eleanor sends them out with Jasmine and Caroline to lick their wounds. Zayn’s proud of her, watches Eleanor twitch to sniff a line before placing it in the confiscation box—that way probable deniability is an option should they get raided later in the night. They keep the door open; the both of them watching the La Fazia cousins blend into the small crowd circulating in the club already. A drink, Zayn accepts a drink, sipping from a glass in one hand and slinging the other over the bony shoulders of one of his oldest friends.

“You think they’ll be trouble,” she asks, ignoring all the rules Zayn has about sanitation and drinking directly from the bottle. She leans onto Zayn, her weight not withstanding all the alcohol she’s consumed before the club even had a chance to open. Eleanor slurs, “I think they’ll be trouble. Boys like that are _always_ trouble.”

“Boys like what,” Zayn asks, ‘cause he wants to know.

There’s a crash that has the distinct sound of glasses falling onto hard-tiled floor and El’s lack of coordination vanishes before Zayn’s eyes. She places her bottle on her desk with amusingly sad eyes and begins to walk in the direction of the chaos. Before she does, Eleanor points a long finger in his direction, poking him without concern for any small amount of discomfort it might cause.

“Boys like you.”

**/////**

Liam doesn’t come around to do paperwork, can’t even scrounge up the balls to call Zayn or Eleanor to tell them so, just has Louis pass along the message. And it’s okay, or it would be if it were any other person besides Liam. The inventory isn’t low enough to need re-stocking or re-ordering—and Zayn is plenty competent enough to pick up his slack.

Sure, it could wait. All of it could. But one night would lead to two and going over the logistics of every night was a hell of a lot easier than eyeing the paper trail of an entire week.

“I’m coming over,” Zayn says into Liam’s voicemail. “You don’t want to pick up, that’s cool. I see your poetic justice and I raise you the irritation of having to document the amount of drinks sold in one night.” It’s a landline, the voice message should be broadcast through Liam’s box apartment loud enough for him to hear and catch the bait Zayn’s laying out. Obviously that’s not the case tonight. “I get it, I didn’t answer my phone, you don’t have to answer yours,” he says, sighing. “Way to be a dick, Liam. Whatever, Louis’ dropping my off in a few, try to make your place the least bit sanitary before I arrive.”

Still, nothing.

“You’re a pain in my ass, bye.”

“Have you stopped to think that maybe he’s busy, love?”

Eleanor’s tending to her own affairs, sighing disruptively every time Zayn makes another phone call. Yes, Zayn has thought of that, and it falls short to soothe his anxiousness. A case of red wine here, a removal of lime slices there—and he’s done. Zayn makes a neat pile of the papers in his hands—which are beginning to shake without his given consent—and he’s placing the stack towards the middle of Liam’s desk and stars back to his own.

“I did,” Zayn answers, “and I don’t care.” Louis is perched on Eleanor’s couch, copious sips of vitamin water stopping him from adding to the current conversation. They don’t have to speak to communicate, both of them nodding and making various facial expressions to assure that Louis is fine to drive Zayn to Liam’s house in one final stop. “Do you need a ride home,” he directs at Eleanor, patting himself to make sure he leaves with all his belongings in his pockets. “Maybe you want to ride over to Liam’s with me? Have a couple—”

“Orgasms? No thank you.” She’s completed her respective tasks, congratulating herself with one last shot before the beginnings of the sun rise outside, banishing their good times until night falls again. The flop of her bun signifies the long night she’s gone through. Zayn feels for her, takes the bulk of her heels from her hands and carries them himself. “Put my shoes down, ass-hat. I’ve got a breakfast date waiting at the bar for me.”

Zayn would peek around the doorjamb to set his sights on her date, but he doesn’t really care where Eleanor lays her affections after work. “Make sure he wraps it before he taps it and all that, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Later, loser.”

“Always nice closing shop with you as well, Vincero.”

Zayn and Louis decide against the front exit and make their way out of the back instead. Louis’ brisk on the walk to the car, opening Zayn’s door more for show than anything else. The drive to Liam’s apartment is long, granted it’s on the other side of town—where the streets are lined with a mixture of cracked cement and tar, and the people are equally as sub par as the apartments they live in. It’s colder, always is just before the sun comes up, and Zayn is thankful Louis keeps the vehicle conditioned enough to have a fairly excellent heating system as they drive farther and farther from the neighborhoods they’re accustomed to.

Liam’s apartment building is only five stories tall, Zayn can spot it in stature several blocks away, just because it ducks lower than any other building in its vicinity. He’s always reaming Zayn for sticking his nose in the air at his living arrangements, although Zayn’s usually just trying to guide his senses in a more fragrant direction. He can’t deny that Liam living on his own—in this neighborhood especially—isn’t something that Zayn will ever agree with.

It was _her_ fault, Zayn knows that. Also knows that he follows orders first, meaning if Simon wanted a specific girl in Zayn’s bed for purposes that reach beyond them, then Zayn’s going to see to it that his wishes are carried out in full. Liam hadn’t been able to leave without proper protestation from Zayn, and an even bigger uproar when the discovery of his flat’s location had been revealed. Fists and tears and harsh words had been thrown—Zayn had been the one hurling them, all three—but in the end Liam’s well-trained persistence won out and Zayn was forced to at least hire movers to transport the bare necessities to a less than adequate apartment for Liam.

Zayn still sighs, always will, whenever he arrives—is forced to look up at the shambles of the complex and question Liam’s taste and sanity and degree of stubbornness. It’s already been a few months past a year and Zayn doesn’t ever think he’ll get used to spending his nights here.

Louis parks and Zayn is brought out of his momentary disgust long enough for an exchange of Glock’s to take place, Zayn handing his over to his driver in favor of a heavier model, one that he doesn’t have to worry about concealing until he’s retrieved in the morning for a meeting across town. Louis looks like a yawn might be upon him, so Zayn’s fingers find his wallet and produce any bill that he touches, shoving them into Louis’ hand.

“Here, go get yourself something for breakfast and then go sleep at the cracker.” Louis rolls his eyes at Zayn’s use of their longstanding joke, and Zayn smiles at that. He forgets too often that those around him—those who spend their life ensuring that his is easier—need something to pick them up sometimes as well. “Don’t refuse either, it’s a very nice hotel. Your house is already filled with girls and moms and a nice, but awfully cheery step-father. It’s on my tab, so do it. The cracker—”

“Ritz,” Louis says, unlocking the car door from his front seat. “It’s the Ritz, Zayn.”

“A Ritz is a cracker.”

“You’re going to be late.”

“Liam can wait, Tommo.”

“But you can’t.”

The silence is very close to splitting Zayn’s ear drums, it is. Moments—tiny slips of words and phrases—there are moments where Zayn forgets that Louis has been leading Zayn to all of his destinations for almost a decade, a decent chunk of his life. One that he’s used to make a friend that will surely last a lifetime. Past the grave, even. A spiritual level of quiet bonds them, conversations spoken in lifted eyebrows and winking eyes. Hand gestures and somber moods. Their relationship bas blossomed in the backseat of this very car, eyes meeting eyes in a rearview mirror. It only seems fitting that when everything is gone—when Zayn has to leave everyone, everyone that he loves and everyone that might love him back—Louis will be the one guiding him to his fate.

“I’ll see you in the morning, bring my suits.” Zayn doesn’t need to say much more than that. Louis’ words don’t need affirmation; the truth lies in the syllables. He’s halfway out the door and Louis is still looking back at him. Once the cold air strikes his face Zayn pats the top of Louis’ car. “And drive safely, this neighborhood is shit.”

“Same to you on the walk up, boss.”

Zayn shakes his head, flexes his hand and leans over the passenger side to talk through the window Louis is busy rolling down. The crisp of the early morning is likely to make Zayn a sight, red-rimmed eyes and a grin that’s sure to look as sinister is the glint in his eyes. He smacks his lips, mostly because Louis hates it, but it’s a necessary feat. “Lou, I’m the one they should be afraid of.”

He laughs, Louis does. But it’s not full of as much heart as Zayn would have hoped.

“You don’t know how right you are, kid.”

**/////**

Zayn knocks for ages, raps and raps his knuckles on the door until the other tenants start complaining about the racket he’s making. There’s a rustling, Liam’s fucking home. Zayn can hear him moving everywhere but towards the door. And times like this would make it ideal for Zayn to have a key to Liam’s apartment, a way in without begging with his fists. His shoes scuff the floor, shuffling. Zayn’s shuffling. And when he bangs one more time, the side of his fist almost as red as the tips of his ears _—it’s fucking cold—_ the door swings back and Zayn’s being greeted.

By a girl.

One who’s rushing past, everything in tact—lipstick, clothes, shoes, all in excellent shape for the walk of shame—but her hair. It’s roused, tussled in all the right places, purposefully shaken. Her eyes never meet his, no, she runs too fast for that. Down the hall and down the stairs, fading into the light radiating through the windows and cracked foundation that lets the sun shine through.

“Sorry for the wait, come in.”

And if whiplash was a thing, Zayn has it. His head turns to face Liam so fast that he sees red again. And what a brilliant color it is. One that elicits emotions, but just the wrong ones. The wrong ones this time. The association with love is severed, replaced with a hot irritation. One that makes no sense because Zayn can’t stamp down a target for his silent rage.

“Who was that?” They’re simple words for a complex situation. Liam looks good in this light, looks good in any light. But this one especially. The morning stretches over his skin, golden and a bit too orange and casting shades in the dips of his hips. Hips that hold no marks. “Did you fuck her last night? Is that why you couldn’t come to work, because you were laying pipe to some chick?”

They both know he didn’t. Liam’s eyes are still stuck to the dirt of his floor. Concrete, it’s fucking concrete. If Zayn didn’t already know that Liam would never bring anyone back here—not to their place—he would, at the very least, question Liam’s odds of scoring with the grime-lined walls and ratted sheets. Liam’s crowding him towards the door, objectively placing his body in Zayn’s line of sight.  

“So what if I did?” The shrug is meant to prick at the underlining of Zayn’s skin, and it does. Zayn has just enough room to close the door behind him before Liam’s hands are at his waist in a form of intimacy that he only reserves for troublesome occasions. Zayn doesn’t need coddling, he steps aside. The outstretched arm doesn’t hold Zayn, so he gets a grip of fingers at his elbow to bring him back to Liam’s side. “Are you here to yell at me about it?”

Lips are at his ear, a ticklish gesture that does nothing to distract Zayn from the matter at hand. “Do you think I need to yell at you? ‘Cause I can if you want me to.” Steps, Zayn makes step after step towards the bed. And Liam’s grip gets tighter, making Zayn’s eyes search harder. There, the bed. Sheets of paper peaking out from under the uncased pillows. Harder, Liam’s fingers grab him harder. “I can do more than yell if you don’t get the fuck off me.”

“Can we just go to bed? Let’s just—let me move all of that stuff and we’ll go to bed.”

It wouldn’t work with anyone else. But oh, isn’t that a common occurrence? Liam is an exception to all the rules Zayn’s arranged himself to live by. Zayn’s weak—knows that when he closes his eyes all of his fears will resurge, take over the façade he’s pulled over his eyes. And his skin crawls with anticipation, an anxious set that’s already beginning to dissipate even with the angry lingering of Liam’s touch.

“You’re not stealing money from me, are you?”

Liam’s turning him around, giving Zayn a chance to appreciate him even more. He’s so grown up, not a boy anymore. And fuck, he’s watched him grow, been at his side for the duration of his maturity. “No.”

He’s un-tucking Zayn’s shirt, his fingers slipping past Zayn’s waistband while Zayn’s hands rediscover Liam’s skin in the daylight. Long lines of muscles tamper into boxers that Zayn would like to decorate the floor with, and it’s a job for both of Liam’s hands to push Zayn’s jacket from his shoulders. “You’re not, uh. Shit, don’t wrinkle that—I swear if you wrinkle that. _Dammit,_ fold it.”

Liam’s laughing at him, bubbles of amusement bursting from his lips at the base of Zayn’s hairline. Textured skin touching the smooth surface of Zayn’s forehead. “Ask me the question, idiot. I’ll fold your dumb jacket when we wake up.”

Zayn’s still clothed, is only missing said jacket when he sits at the foot of Liam’s bed. He toes off his shoes, watches carefully to note where Liam hides whatever files he’s trying to keep out of Zayn’s eyesight. When he first wakes, he’ll look. Zayn will know before Liam informs him, that’s his job. To know about the goings-on of Liam’s life, to remain up to date for Liam’s safety.

“Trafficking,” Zayn suggests, welcomes Liam at his side, dodges a kiss just because he can. “You’re not into human trafficking are you, because that would be mighty immoral of you. I thought I taught you manners.”

“You did.” Zayn’s trousers are next, and Liam’s fingers are deft, shoving Zayn’s hands aside to unbuckle his belt and then his pants. Lips, Zayn feels lips, ones that are moving to speak—tickling his face as they do so. “I’ll tell you later, hmm? It’s nothing serious, promise.”

Zayn tampers down the need to speak, to protest. To tell Liam that it must be a big deal; has to be if Liam’s not opposed to lying to him. To hiding his secrets in the spaces of this room. He lets Liam touch him, removes his mask. Sighs and reclines, allows Liam to see what the rest of the world never will. A submitting of will to be moved up the mattress that’s dressed with no sheets, laid out to be wrapped up. Cloaked in a mess of arms and legs and something else.

Something else that makes Zayn’s chest tighten and eyes droop.

“You don’t have the heart for human trafficking anyhow.” That’s a whisper, coming from Zayn. But he might as well have opened his mouth, put his lungs to use and yelled. Because nothing but silence lies between them, making every word hard to miss. It doesn’t stop Zayn from speaking as low as possible into Liam’s chin—where his mouth had stopped. A good place to stop. A good place to kiss. “You’re a fucking softie.”

“Language.”

“Are you ready?”

It’s a question posed for only Liam. One that only he will understand. Their fingers lace and Zayn’s skin gets clammy, he’s warm under Liam’s affections. They lay together, eyes open and searching for questions and answers, ones that are very unlikely to be answered when they awake again. “We only have four hours.”

Liam might have said that.

Or maybe Zayn did himself.

He’s lost. Caught in fields of his dreams, a warm taunt that will lull him into a pleasant dream before the red comes. Before _she_ comes back to taunt his nights. Comes back after being gone for so long.

“Let’s go to sleep.”

**/////**

Zayn never knows if he should be thankful when he opens his eyes. When the pale-grey light pokes past his eyelids and lulls him out of a nightmare he never forgets having. And it’s the only time he’s slow, only time Zayn’s reactions aren’t timed and precise and that’s scary to him. It’s scary. But the orange-glow of the sheets, it radiates. The yellowed windows of Liam’s apartment are the absolute of unappealing, but not right now. Not when it shakes the terror from his bones left over from the night before.

Because this place isn’t Zayn. It lacks the epitome of his personality. No form, nothing to tie everything together. No shelves and no specific counters. This room lacks boundaries, is one big room. A big room with a toilet and stove and a bed and a claw-foot tub with a shower curtain. What you see is what you’re getting. And it’s so _Liam._ The unpolished floor and the suits slung over an ironing board and underwear in a transparent tub clearly labeled _underwear_. It’s all there for Zayn to see when he sits up.

Open and honest. Nothing for him to hide.

Expect the sheets of paper Liam’s shoving into his freezer, moving them again, for the second time this morning. His mouth circles around a toothbrush, and the brushes of gold keep Zayn’s attention because the morning sun creates magic against Liam’s flesh. An entrancing spell that almost—almost, but not quite—makes him forget that Liam’s resorting to hiding his secrets amongst frozen peas and carrots.

“You know,” Zayn says, the throaty sounds of his laughter erupting when Liam jumps, smacks his elbow on something, something Zayn can’t see from here. But he yelps and that’s oddly amusing for nine in the morning, so Zayn laughs. “I don’t even want to know what you’re hiding. I don’t care.”

He does care, but there are other things lining his prerogative, things Zayn has a better chance of dealing with rationally, so no. Caring about Liam’s discretions is the least of his problems. Not today.

“You do care,” Liam insists around his toothbrush. And fuck. _Fuck,_ the paste at the corners of his mouth shouldn’t be cute to Zayn. Zayn can barely stand to use words like adorable, no they shouldn’t be in his vocabulary. Because Liam is not cute. Liam is broad-shouldered. And he has narrow hips. Too much chest hair _—fucking facial hair—_ to be considered anything similar to cute. Liam is—Liam is crawling up the bed. Yeah, he’s doing that. “You care a lot, I can see it. It’s eating you up.”

The curve of his smirk isn’t appreciated, but it’s welcome. Because he feels light, Zayn does. The intrusive amount of covers is the only thing stopping him from floating up into the cracked surface of Liam’s ceiling. That and Liam. Liam, who’s making a fool out of himself creeping into Zayn’s lap and making himself comfortable. At home.

“I don’t,” Zayn says, and he says it around a yawn because he’s tired. A good tired that comes after a nap you never want to wake up from. Liam’s goofy this morning, and it’s—fuck—it’s adorable. Liam’s fingers reach out to tangle with Zayn’s, and as soon as Liam can get him to open his palm—not easy, Zayn doesn’t do intimate—he takes the weight off his knees and crashes. Right there between Zayn’s thighs, head finding the crook of Zayn’s neck. “What I do care about,” Zayn huffs, pretending to struggle under Liam’s weight because it’s the least he can do for his dignity, “is the fact that I can’t breathe right now.”

“You can breathe just fine, asshole. And stop lying.”

“It’s hot, Liam, get _off_ —and I’m not lying.”

Unluckily enough for Zayn, Liam chooses now to have selective hearing.

The head buried in his neck breathes warm breath against Zayn’s skin, little puffs of laughter that clam up his skin. And it should be annoying, but it’s not. Neither is the sensation of lines Liam’s tracing along his skin, enjoying the restlessness of Zayn’s morning movements. Enjoying the fact that he’s interrupting the hectic pattern of Zayn’s thoughts as well his schedule.

“Thanks for not asking,” Liam breathes. It’s a gentle apology that Zayn accepts with a hurl-inducing kiss to Liam’s forehead. He’s nuzzling now, and Zayn is okay with that. He is. So he kisses Liam again, just once more. Maybe or maybe not for the fucking coo and repeat nuzzle he gets in return. “Thanks for caring, but not pushing. It’s what I lo—”

Zayn interjects to halt Liam’s admission of love. “Well, you let me sleep over, so it’s the least I could do.”

“Let me say it,” Liam begs. Zayn feels lips at his pulse-point, kiss kiss kiss. “You’re trusting me to—to whatever. So trust me to say it.” The thigh across Zayn’s lap moves and Liam’s sitting up on his elbow, looking down at him. “You know I mean it.”

Zayn does. He knows. Like he knows that Liam’s not really blonde, but the light plays tricks on his eyes. Colors the smattering of hairs dusted across his shoulders that are affected by the false light glaring off the white of Liam’s sheets. Like Zayn knows that Liam’s going to kiss him. And he doesn’t let Zayn down, leans forward until the tip of his nose is making an indention at the end of Zayn’s.

“Okay,” Zayn allows, pupils blown wide to see Liam this close. “Yeah, alright. Say it.”

“I love you.”

The kiss is pleasant and liquid and warm. It’s calming and slow and Zayn’s tongue is getting lost in Liam’s mouth. Zayn gets overeager, has to be restrained from sitting up and yanking the hairs at the back of Liam’s head. _Slow down, baby,_ it’s all in whispers while Zayn memorizes this moment. He wants to remember all of them. Every time Liam touches him, and _fuck_ if that’s not frustrating. _I love you, too._ And Zayn doesn’t have to scream it or yell it, it’s moaned. Around Liam’s tongue and imprinted into Zayn’s heart.

Every fucking time.

But the longer it goes on, the more it needs to stop. Because Zayn has a schedule, things he needs to do. And he won’t stop. The line of Liam’s cock, hard and long and hot against Zayn’s hip—it’s enticing—as persuasive as the subtle movements of his hips. It was just supposed to be a kiss.

“I’ve got to go— _you’ve_ got to go.” Liam ignores him, finds other uses for his mouth. Like sucking on Zayn’s neck, biting at the juncture of his shoulder. All the while, their hands still interlocked, his thumb rubbing Zayn’s knuckles and it’s all a big fucking distraction. He pushes against Liam again, harder, more effective this time. “I need to shower.”

Liam does it on purpose, moves his fingers to find the contorted skin at Zayn’s side, the stretch that doesn’t match the rest. He thumbs it, bends down to kiss it. Because he knows it makes Zayn’s eyelashes crash down against his cheeks—makes his hips jump. “Are you sure you want to leave? We haven’t—”

“I’m sure,” Zayn insists readily, though the grip he has on Liam’s hair might say otherwise, especially since he’s pressing Liam’s head forward instead of pulling him away. Liam’s tongue, it’s talented. It dances across Zayn’s side, his lips rehashing the trail his tongue just took. “And I _—fucking asshole—_ I sucked your dick yesterday afternoon. Don’t be greedy. You want to rub one off, call one of the girls at The Company.”

“Don’t want a girl, want to open you up—”

That’s all it takes. “And I’m done.”

Liam tries to hold him down—uses his weight to anchor Zayn to the mattress—but Zayn’s smaller, so he’s slipping right out from under Liam and making a valiant effort to not hurl at the disarray of Liam’s apartment. A toothbrush, he needs one before Liam can console the boner in his pants and stop him from washing up before he’s grimacing on his way to the shower.

“Zayn,” Liam is whining from a place far back in his throat, and it does a lot of things that distort the shape of Zayn’s boxer shorts. “Did I do something wrong? It’s a meeting. Louis’ not even here yet. One round, and I’ll let you shower. _One._ It’ll be quick.”

Zayn scoffs around a toothbrush, hates the spatter it creates. “That definitely doesn’t make me want to come back to bed. I’m a man of romance, Liam. I don’t want a quickie.”

Liam mirrors his grunt, even rolls his eyes at Zayn’s back—which Zayn can see through the surface of the pot hanging in front of the kitchen sink. “Since when?”

“Since you started talking like a pornstar and promising me shitty five minute sex.” Zayn has to sing in his head, the happy birthday song, because his dentist recommends he brush for that long. This is more important than watching Liam roll out of bed in the time it takes Zayn to find the floss, which is tastefully tucked between a can of spinach and a bottle of mouthwash. “Also,” Zayn says around his fingers, internally groaning when he turns around and Liam is closer to him that he was before, “we have to go to Dad’s to get the checks. It’s distributing day.”

“You mean Simon’s?”

“Excuse me?”

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat, barely hears Liam’s response on his way to the tub to turn on the water. He runs his hand under the water until he’s satisfied with the temperature.

“Simon. His name is Simon.” Liam starts taking off his trousers, pouting until Zayn stops shaking his head no. “You have a dad, I have a dad. Simon is Simon.”

That’s enough to stop Zayn. Because Liam is no longer trying to keep a running banter between them, he’s defensive. Crossed arms and broad stance. And Zayn is confused because he’s not attacking him, he’s rebutting the questions Liam is presenting—questions about Simon, who _is_ for the most part, their father. The man who’s taken care of them for as long as either one of them can remember, literally.

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, leaving his boxers in a puddle at his feet and converting the faucet water to the showerhead before stepping in, not surprised when Liam steps in behind him. “But my dad’s a pile of ashes ten blocks over, and so is yours.”

“’S a little harsh, Zayn.”

The water isn’t as cold as Liam’s stare, and it makes the air even thinner. Makes it harder to think. Zayn’s hands find a washrag to squirt soap onto, he busies himself, runs it over his chest and up and down his thighs. “It being harsh doesn’t make it any less true. Dad has always—”

“Simon.”

“I’m gonna fucking punch you in the face.”

It’s irritating now, adds to the heat of Zayn’s skin—a scolding that has nothing to do with the progression of heat being added to the stream of water. As is the trying way Liam’s grabbing his washcloth, attempting to be coy by replacing Zayn’s scrubbing hands with his own. “I’m not trying to argue with you, babe.”

“Call him dad.”

Zayn doesn’t mean to sound so angry, it just comes out that way. Just like he doesn’t mean to moan at Liam’s advances, his fingers playing at Zayn’s waist, moving the cloth back and forth across the plane of his hips.

“No,” he responds, but Zayn barely hears him. Can hardly concentrate on anything with Liam swelling at his back, alternating between nipping at the flesh of Zayn shoulders and soothing him with wet, slippery kisses at his neck. “Simon, his name is Simon. But do you,” kiss, kiss, kiss, “really want to talk about Simon right now? Do you want me to stop?”

No, never.

“It’s not—fuck.” Zayn doesn’t expect it, doesn’t foresee the fingers at his spine, trickling along with the water down to his cleft. Though, he should because it’s _Liam_. It’s Liam who, like Zayn, would rather fuck than speak about what’s on his mind. But not this time, Zayn can’t let him get away with this. “It’s not ideal to have to talk about my dad with, _shit,_ with your fingers up my ass, but it’s gonna happen.”

“Let’s not,” and the grimace is felt at the back of Zayn’s neck. He doesn’t see it, but knows it’s there. “Bend over, real quick. Please.”

Liam’s asking, voice soft, only just heard over the water. Zayn has to sink his teeth into the flesh of his lip to stop himself from saying no. Because Liam begs beautifully, does so with intent and incentive. There are fingers tapping his back, his sides, his front—the entirety of his torso—as he’s being pushed forward with the promise of more. A promise predicated by the hunch in Liam’s shoulders before he kneels, space limited in the tub they share, Zayn’s body blocking the water from hitting his face.

“Liam, I’m not done talking about this.”

“I think you are.” He leans forward to press a soft kiss at the swell of Zayn’s ass—it only feels that good because it’s all heightened. Everything. Zayn’s senses are on fire. He’s on fire. “I want you, babe. Please,” he pleads again, but it doesn’t sound like a question, no, Liam’s lips are followed by a flash of teeth and the swipe of a tongue and he’s _ordering_ Zayn. “Bend over, please. Just, bend over. Only have a little bit of time. Bend over for me.”

“What do you want me to grab,” bites Zayn, sarcasm his only defense against the fingers on the inside of his calves, now his thighs. And they dance along Zayn’s body with a glide produced by the droplets of water sticking to his skin. “We’re in a tub next to a concrete wall, Liam. Shower sex just doesn’t seem— _shit!_ That,” Zayn begs, unashamed. “Do that, again.”

All of it, it all goes to hell with then Liam’s pulling away and rolling Zayn’s balls against his tongue. Zayn’s breath catches in a manner that only encourages Liam, makes him lap again. And again and again until Zayn is leaning forward, palms scraping at the grout of the wall—simply because his fucking knees give out.

He’s making obscene smacking noises, ones that are only dramaticized by the acoustics of the shower. “God Liam, yes. Liam, _yes._ ”

Zayn’s belittled to small phrases, ones that make sense only here, in the mix of passion and the thrusting of tongues and hips. The teasing touch lingers, makes Zayn whine into his fist, forget about the water in his eyes. Leave behind the thoughts of drops hitting his back, rolling down to where Liam’s lips are pressed. Where he taunts Zayn with a trace of his thumbs. Thumbs creating a rhythm to join the tickle of water dripping its way past Zayn’s thighs.

“Fuck you. Fuck you, _fuck you._ ” Liam’s mouth is otherwise occupied, but Zayn’s sure he’s delighted at the thrashing he’s causing. The shaking of Zayn’s shoulders that has him smirking around Zayn’s hole, his hand prancing up Zayn’s spine to press him down further, pushing his ass back into Liam, delivering a stiff and pointed tongue to his pucker. Zayn keens, whines and whips around while Liam slides his tongue deeper after teasing the ring of Zayn’s hole. “ _Fingers,_ Liam. Fingers, I _need._ _Need it._ ”

“Shh,” he placates, never moving, just spreading Zayn. Licking him further. Pushing in as far as he can, hitting spots that have Zayn screaming unabashedly, the sides of Liam’s tongue coaxing the ring—the fluttery, pulsing ring—pulling out as slowly as he slides in. “I know what you need. Zayn, I’ve got you, _shh._ ”

He always does, Zayn doesn’t doubt it. He moans around his knuckle, chocking out sounds that shake him around Lam’s tongue. It’s absurd, the way Zayn is able to feel Liam’s lips at his ass. Plump and puckering, pink tongue sliding out to make Zayn writhe above him. Now Liam is humming, does it to light Zayn up. To cause more vibrations than already induced by the slightly chilling water, and they’re running out of time. Because Liam lives in a shitty apartment, and the second wave of hot water won’t kick in for a few more minutes, and that’s not something that Zayn has.

Zayn needs to come. Needs it.

All of his weight rests on one hand, the other quick to reach down to his prick, jerking readily. Zayn strips up and down and Liam’s only beginning to insert fingers, the first one sliding in with no give. No pull. And the second one isn’t as easy, Liam has to twist and swirl and lathe his fingers with spit and water and there are more open-mouthed kisses to his hole, and it’s in. Moving and making Zayn move with both fingers now, all of it’s too much.

Too much, he’s too sensitive.

Zayn hears the squelch of wetness against Liam’s fingers, and he draws it out—fucking teasing, enticing him, and forcing him to beg. He rubs around Zayn’s entrance, massaging the little pink ring, effusing to go deeper until Zayn groans long and hard, his voice carrying. The shake in his body encouraging Liam to move his tongue, delve it deeper. Liam reintroduces his tongue, and then slides another finger in, pushing all three equally in time, subtle rocking jibes that have Zayn canting his hips upwards into his fist, dangerously close to exploding.

“’S all it takes for you, hmm?” Zayn doesn’t know why the fuck he’s talking. Why Liam exchanged his tongue for another finger when he has so much potential in that little muscle. “I love you like this, _fu—_ I do. I love how you forget everything when I touch you. _Love you._ ”

Written somewhere in their routine is the use of those three words. It can make Liam spill into Zayn’s mouth, or stop Zayn in his movements, turn his bones into putty and make him shout—yell and scream and _love_ Liam right back. But it’s the other words, how he says all of them together, how Liam puts forth hints of malice and manipulation and a false sense of power—it makes Zayn uneasy. Doesn’t put him right over the edge, but backs him away from it.

Zayn’s about to open his mouth, ask _what the fuck_ that’s supposed to mean—but there’s the alarm. An insistent ringing that has Zayn standing up and yanking the shower curtain aside, leaving Liam in the tub on his knees, not as pleased as he was before. “Really, Zayn? What the fuck?”

The alarm means nine-thirty, always has. And nine thirty means Zayn doesn’t have time to look back at Liam and tell him how cheap he just made Zayn feel. Doesn’t even have time for feelings, shouldn’t have had them in the first place.

And it ends like that, it never fails. Something has to ruin them. But this, this is different. Because Zayn can handle Perrie calling, demanding that he come home. He can take Simon snatching him away from Liam for a job, that’s nothing new. Eleanor calling, Louis banging on the door, Niall paging him via text—all of those Zayn can take. Zayn can shoulder it all, takes it in stride, even. But what he can’t take is _Liam._ Liam belittling the smallest of what romantic fantasy they have and molding it into something hard and plastic and fake.

For his own gain.

So he can get Zayn off his back.

All he had had to do was tell him to shut the fuck up. This—all of this—making Zayn want him, it wasn’t necessary. Zayn will be damned if he reveals his hurt, not vocally. Liam will figure it out anyway, is excellent at discovering his faults, but Zayn’s not going to stick a clue under his nose. Fuck him.

Zayn finds his phone in his pants pocket, cringes when he sees they’ve fallen to the floor in the middle of the night, dust making them impossible to wear, even out to the car. Never has Zayn been good at the walk of shame. As soon as his alarm is silenced, Zayn’s sending a text to Louis, requesting he bring Zayn’s suit up to Liam’s apartment instead of having it ready in the Rover. “I’ve got to go, Liam. Thanks for all that, I’ll finish later.”

Liam’s still on about it, bitching and moaning and yelling frustrated obscenities at Zayn like this apartment actually contains walls to tone down his voice. Like the only thing separating them isn’t twenty feet and a shower curtain. Zayn can’t deny that he’s cold; shivers consistently run down his spine at the lack of a towel around his hips to pat away the water. His hair is wetting his nape, does so until he finds one of Liam’s shirts to stop the dripping. And it’s enticing, really, it is—the steam coming from Liam’s shower as the second wave of hot water kicks in. It makes it extremely difficult to search for his boxers in the cold while Liam is still naked and wet and _warm_ in his shower.

Still fucking yelling.

“Could you pipe down? And hurry up? Louis is already on his way, and you know Dad doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” The slide of slick between Zayn’s cheeks makes it difficult to focus on the task at hand: locating his clothing. The more he moves, the more disruptive the phantom lingering of Liam’s tongue and fingers becomes. “Dad’s already—”

“You mean—”

Zayn’s fingers rip through his hair, his scalp feeling the effects of his nails. Scrape, scrape, they scrape. “Call him Simon one more fucking time, Liam. I swear to god, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but you better fix it.”

The trickling of water splashing off the sides of the tub as they rain down for the shower head makes it difficult to hear Liam talk when his voice isn’t raised. “Who died and made you—”

“Your dad, and mine.”

It’s cruel, but it brings a delicious silence, one that lacks the noise of Liam’s smart mouth.

“Whatever is bugging you, kick it before we get to Dad’s.” Zayn can sense it, knows it’s coming before it comes. Liam’s attempting to correct him, but Zayn stops him before he has a chance to begin. “Yes, _Dad,_ ” he says, pulling on boxers stashed between Liam’s bed and his side table.

It’s nearing nine-forty, which means Louis’ should be pulling up now. So Liam needs to get the fuck out of the shower.

He hears the word _Simon_ again, and Zayn just. He loses it, starts talking without context. “Dad, Liam. _Father._ Pops. Old man, I don’t fucking _care._ Actually, you want to call him Simon? Go ahead, but say it with respect.” Liam’s still yelling, Zayn is still yelling back. “I don’t care if he’s not your biological dad, Li. He changed your shitty diapers. He bought you a bike. That’s the man that put a roof over your head—a pretty fucking one at that—so you didn’t have to bounce around from foster home to foster home.”

“I never asked for any of it.”

It’s ridiculous. Insane how one person can _bitch_ so fucking much over so fucking little. “That’s because you couldn’t _speak_ at the time, jerk-off. You couldn’t even walk at the time, Li. He’s a good guy. Drop the act and be a little more appreciative.”

There’s a knock, and Zayn couldn’t be more thankful for Louis’ timing. Liam’s still saying awful things, horrible things about Simon that should never be spoken. _He took us in because he could never hope to have two boys of his own. And don’t act like he’s doing us any favors. All for him, it’s all for him._ And Zayn has to answer the door, needs to leave Liam to lather and rinse and loathe by himself. The thought of Liam relaying those words to the man who fed and clothed them both for the last twenty-three years of their lives—it makes Zayn want to dry heave.

It makes Zayn’s skin clammy, produces sweat at his brow. Causes dizziness and lack of breath.

He has a hard time picturing his father’s reaction at Liam’s small rebellion. And the back of his brain, the little voice there, it tells Zayn all of this has something to do with the secrets stashed away in the freezer. It falls short of clicking together, but it’s a behavioral issue that Zayn hasn’t been accustomed to dealing with in years.

Again, there’s a knock, heavier this time, louder. And that’s what ends up shocking Zayn out of a panic. In the distance, Liam’s still talking, standing in the shower for lack of any other place to go. Zayn can’t explain his next action, hasn’t the slightest clue why it’s so pertinent to scold Liam—to punish him. Zayn shouldn’t even know how to do this, doesn’t know why he does. But the kitchen faucet shares a water line with the shower system. So when Zayn turns on the cold water before padding to the door, opening it and stepping out, closing it behind him, he knows the water pouring down on Liam will be anything but forgiving.

 _“Fucking prick!”_ And it’s confirmed seconds later, luckily there’s a door shielding Zayn from Liam and whatever anger that might be coursing through his body. That’s likely to be almost as hot as his temper. 

“G’ morning, boss. In a hurry?” Louis is there, suit in hand, eyes not on Zayn but focused near the stairs. “I’ve brought along E—”

Zayn nods, takes his suit and relinquishes his concern for fine form in exchange for fast legs and a lack of desire for small talk. “I don’t care who you brought along, Lou. Let’s just go.”

But he’s not fast enough, or maybe Liam is just faster. Neither helps Zayn when the front door is swung open, and Liam is standing there in all his naked glory. Wet and distracting and so, _so_ pissed. It must say something that Zayn yelps, but Louis does not; simply, he moves out of Liam’s path, reaches for naught when the youngest of the group reaches two steps below the landing to drag Zayn back to his chest.

Zayn would like to say he fights, but he can’t. He _can_ fight back, could take Liam and his too-long arms and excessively subtle muscle tone and beat him into the dirt. Size advantage has nothing on experience. But he’s dead weight, smiling apologetically at Louis while his heels drag the floor.

“Give us one second, Louis. This won’t take very long at all.” That’s Zayn being courteous, because it’s the polite thing to do when you force someone to wait. For emphasis, Zayn adds, “Five minutes is all I’m ever promised.”

Liam’s face is dark—and that’s funny. To Zayn, that’s laughable. The audacity Zayn has to laugh in the face of Liam’s frustration doesn’t bode him well for very long, not in Liam’s perspective. But this, he can do. Zayn knows how to curb the clicking teeth and the clenched fists. Zayn can handle that, is versed at it.

“Smart fucking mouth, you’ve got.” And Louis does jump in shock at that, because Liam is seldom to curse, makes an ass out of himself at the lack of it. “Stay here, Lou. Or don’t. I need to talk to Zayn for a second.”

“I mean, yeah.” Louis is baffled, and for a second Zayn thinks he might intervene. An exchange of lifted eyebrows and heavy sighs forces him not to, and Zayn knows Louis’ will be giving him shit for this later. “Yeah that’s fine.”

The door creaks shut after slamming, squeals even more with the added pressure of Zayn’s weight, his garment bag stripped form his hands and tossed aside. Because Liam knows how much that will dig under Zayn’s skin. How it will bother Zayn that his pressed and pristine attire will lie on the less than cleanly floor of Liam’s apartment. But his face is against the door, mouth open against the wood—what passes for wood in this complex—and Zaynknows he’s a sight. Hasn’t the faintest doubt that he looks helpless and broken and out of control.

“You think you’re so fucking funny, don’t you?” Zayn gets grabbed, hips still against the door, soft cock hardening again, making it painful to just stand there. Liam hefts them together, expelling air from Zayn’s lungs. “We were having an adult conversation and you pull some high-school shit and make my shower too hot.” It’s almost a gurgle, Zayn’s laugh. Parts of it silenced with the width of Liam’s fingers around his throat. “You think it’s funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

And the first strike is cast. A sound that no doubt radiates past the door and to the ears of Zayn’s most trusted assistant. Liam’s palm lands on Zayn with a sudden slap, a delectable sound that makes Zayn wish there was nothing in between his skin and Liam’s hand. He grinds his cock into the door, writhes there while Liam attempts to restrain him.

Zayn can give up right here. This is how it’s supposed to be. Liam is supposed to want Zayn, to want to touch him and force words from his mouth and make him say sorry. Because he knows Zayn needs it. Begs to give up the control he has all the day long. He cries out, because he can. Because the teeth sinking into the muscles at the back of his neck—that’s Liam’s apology.

A sorry without the actual words.

The door shakes, and Zayn gets pulled back, Liam’s arm still around his belly while he works on opening the door and yelling. “Wait a fucking minute.”

“Swear jar,” Zayn says to ease the raw anger and tension out of the room, to tell Liam its okay.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, but he does so with a smile and a slam of the door.

Zayn can just see the profile of his face, Liam’s head hooked over his shoulder, moving the both of them backwards. Only things don’t go as planned, because fate doesn’t have anything conventional worked out for the two of them. And the only rug Liam has in his apartment—a monstrous thing that Zayn has begged him to get rid of, time and time again—is their downfall. Zayn’s belly meets the carpet first; Liam’s weight is on his back for a flash of a second before he’s on his knees, kneeling over Zayn.

“I have to go to work. _We_ have to go to work.” Zayn never wants to leave this spot, but he can’t _not_ protest. He can’t fall to Liam’s charms so easily, no matter how good Liam is with his hands and his mouth and the hips that are all stressing factors in making Zayn grunt into the rug. Fibers, disgusting and gritty fibers stick to his tongue, but all Zayn wants is more. More. “Get off me. I fucking mean it.”

“Not when I’m still hard and you’re still _—dammit._ ” Liam marvels, stopping when he has Zayn’s boxers past the curve of his ass, the slightest swell catching. Zayn struggles to look back, wants to see if the awe in Liam’s voice is dancing across his features. But Zayn is held in place, teeth now seeking refuge in the carpet, the matting bitter across his tongue. “Why did I ever let you get out of the shower? Should have fucked you there.”

That’s enough, Zayn’s done the substantial amount of protesting. He’s weak, today. Doesn’t know how not to want Liam this morning. He mends so many things, just like this, giving Zayn what he wants. What he didn’t know he wanted before, but Liam did. Does. Always does.

“Fucking smart mouth,” Liam muses. “Aren’t so smart now, hmm? Aren’t—”

“Get on with it, mate. Fuck’s sake.”

Zayn hisses, crying out in pleasure-pain when Liam’s teeth sink into the supple skin of his ass, biting. His punishment for sassing, Zayn assumes. More biting, Liam’s tongue a shock against the indents in the sensitive trace of skin. He’s everywhere, there’s not a place that Zayn can’t feel Liam’s presence—be it in his fingers or hands or tongue or whispered promises in his ear.

Zayn gasps, spine arching, whole body stiffening around Liam’s tongue as it sinks deep inside his body. Zayn’s feverish with want, cock throbbing against his stomach—aching, he’s aching. The need to come is so fucking bad, mouth whimpering pleas against the carpet.

“Should I give you my fingers,” he’s asking, though Zayn doubts much of his opinion will reflect on what Liam does next with his fingers. Or his tongue. Or any other talented part of his body he’s using to drive Zayn’s poise into the ground. Or the carpet—the one wet under Zayn’s chin, soaked with the memoirs of Zayn’s unanswered pleas. Liam’s next words sound boyish, remind Zayn whose doing this and why. Why it means so much to have _Liam_ spreading him open and reaming him apart. “Talk to me, Zayn. D’ya want ‘em or not? Do you want me?”

Like that’s a question that _—fuck—_ hat even needs an answer.

He licks hesitantly—questioning. Zayn hisses in answer, hips rising from the floor, shoving back into the heavenly slide of Liam’s tongue inside him. His hands fist around the carpet—thin and useless because nothing he holds on to will make him squirm any less when he spreads his legs wider. Lifts his ass and presses it back into Liam’s face, _more._ All Zayn wants is more, doesn’t care how he gets it.

Zayn’s only aim is to let Liam know what he does to him—how this is all Zayn needs, all he’ll ever need. Liam inside him. Around him. Near him, Zayn only asks to be near him. He expresses it in dry pants and a slew of curses following the sensitivity over-shock of Liam’s mouth now coupled with the berth of his fingers.

Liam reacts to the lack of vocal recognition, jolting Zayn with a hint of his tongue—laving and swirling and moving around his fingers. Zayn’s never been more appreciative, never. Or if he has, he’s having trouble remembering. Zayn shudders against his knuckles in his mouth and lets his head knock against the carpet, only temporarily aware of the stinging concrete underneath the rug cracking at his skull. “Do you want me to stop? Talk to me, baby Say something. Should I—”

“Don’t you fucking _dare._ ” Zayn shakes his head against the carpet, thrusts his hips against Liam’s hand, three fingers filling him—rubbing against his sweet spot. Zayn’s cock drags along the carpeting, already rubbing a little too raw from the friction of rug burn. And he’s so close, Liam’s fingers— _Liam’s fingers, Jesus fucking Christ_ —swiveling inside him, Zayn’s cock head dripping into the rough fabric of the carpet. “Fuck me. Just—fuck me, Liam. Enough of this— _fuck me_.”

Liam crawls on top of him—slow, with intent to fucking torture—fingers climbing up to Zayn’s shoulders, chest dragging over his back. Liam forges a path of kisses down his spine, wide and talented hands bracketing Zayn’s hips. And fuck if Zayn can’t feel him smiling, tongue peeking out—velvet against the slippery slide of Zayn’s still-wet skin.

“Are you sure,” he asks, and Zayn can feel his hips twitch. Cock head slippery—teasing in and out of Zayn’s grasp. It’s pathetic how he clenches in anticipation, how bad Zayn wants it. Liam’s leaning over him, pressing chaste kisses along his neck and shoulders and back before whispering in his ear. “You know they’re listening right outside the door? People can hear you. They know I make you like this.”

“Please.” Zayn strains to turn his head, lips barely catching the curve of Liam’s jaw.

Liam kisses back, of course he does, sliding his tongue along Zayn’s and placing sure hands on Zayn’s hips, rocking them together, Liam’s cock full and throbbing and pressing along Zayn’s hole. Just not pushing in. And fuck, fuck. Zayn hates the pretense of begging, but again Liam’s the exception.

Their kisses are slow, matching the leisurely pace of Liam’s hips, sucking Zayn’s bottom lip between his and suckling. That makes Zayn whimper, even more so when Liam draws back before Zayn can retaliate. “Don’t fucking care if they can hear. Just do something, stop teasing— _do_ something.”  
  
Liam’s tongue outlines the shell of Zayn’s ear—breathing hot, letting his teeth catch the lobe. He grinds it between his teeth and Zayn knows it’s just for the savory burst of pain, he yelps. “Can she do this? Your little b— _her._ Can she?”

“No. No, no. _Please._ ”

“Beg me.”

“The fuck—the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

_“Beg.”_

“Please,” Zayn breathes, hesitation lost in his voice. “God, Li, please, please, fuck me. Please. Don’t make me beg anymore. Just, please. Fuck me.” Zayn can’t keep the pleading out of his voice on the last note, and Liam decides then that he won’t wait anymore. _Thank fucking god._ “Yes. Thank you, fuck. Yes.”

He shifts, and Zayn’s hips are being pulled down while Liam rises to his knees. From there he guides his cock to Zayn’s hole, _and fucking finally,_ the head of Liam’s dick—thick and leaking and bare—presses past the ring of muscle that Zayn’s trying so hard to relax. He gasps out breaths of bliss. And now all Zayn can feel is the slide of Liam’s cock inside him, buried in the tight heat—ridges of his prick running along the cleft of Zayn’s ass, he feels everything. _Everything._

His eyes are all aflutter, Zayn can hardly keep them open, can barely suck in one breath after another.

Liam twists his cock inside Zayn. And this—this full sensation, the texture of Liam’s hands on Zayn’s skin—it’s suffocating. The closeness drains Zayn’s lungs, makes him pant and plead and push back into Liam’s canting hips. All with his eyes screwed shut.

They both groan at the easy friction, and when he glides back in just as slowly, Liam arches against him.

“So fucking good,” Liam mutters, grinding his hips against Zayn’s, fingers climbing, reaching his shoulder and dragging back down to Zayn’s chest. Zayn’s cock bobs there, Liam catches it in his palm on the off-bounce, jerking him in sync with his thrusts. He thumbs the head of Zayn’s cock—and it’s all too much. Always too much. “Little bit longer, baby. Come on. Doing so fucking good.”

The words coming out of his mouth are filthy only on Liam. But only to someone who’s keen to his habits, who knows the significance of a curse leaving those lips. Liam fucks him with terse, deep, harsh upshots until Zayn is bewailing, close to weeping with need. Liam works Zayn at all angles, fucking him and jerking him, hips pulsing into Zayn and thumbs working under the crown of his cock, fingers stripping him hard and quick, cock plunging in and out of him—Zayn can’t fucking  _breathe_.

_“Harder.”_

Liam growls and abandons his grip on Zayn’s cock to gain momentum, hips slamming harder as requested. The slapping of Liam’s balls on Zayn’s ass and thighs is the only sound filling the room, that and the panting. Zayn can’t stop that, no. Doesn’t know if he can breathe any shallower without passing out.

“If I fuck you any harder, I’m gonna have to carry you to the— _so tight, shit._ The car, I’ll have to uh, carry you to the car.”

“Please—do it. I wanna come,” Zayn’s shivering now, arms and legs near their end, his mouth open and slick around his red-bitten knuckles. “Just wanna come, fucking. Yeah, Liam. Yeah. Fuck, yeah.”

Zayn’s head falls back, mouth falling open around a silent scream as Liam pulls out, sudden pressure leaving him, cock head dragging over something that feels fucking  _fantastic_. Before Zayn has a chance to catch up with his breathing, Liam’s shoving into Zayn again, gripping him still, and slamming his hips into Zayn’s ass. When he pulls back fully, Zayn’s whines are halted with the tingle of patterns licked over the knobs of bone along his spine.

“The things I do because I love you, babe.” And Liam’s leaning in, unbearably close, hindering his thrusts to little honey-slow rotations of his hips. His lips brush the cusp of Zayn’s ear. “I want you like this all the time. Morning, noon. Want to keep you in this room, hide you away.”

“Love you.” It falls off Zayn’s lips, never comes that easily, but this is what they do. They fuck. They share space and time and air. And all the sentiments that go along with it. “I do Liam, I love you.”

Zayn comes without a hand on himself, senseless cry spiraling into the air, his ass contracting around Liam like a vice, rhythmic pulses sucking him deeper and deeper. Liam’s arms wrap close around him, keeping Zayn still as he comes, pulsing and pulsing and emptying into Zayn with bruising fingers at the tail of his spine.

His knees are aching, but Liam’s arms are steady, keeping Zayn from dropping his hips to the floor. Liam’s cock is softer when he slips out of Zayn, but it still catches, still makes Zayn hiss at the sensitive pop of muscle around the head of Liam’s cock.

Zayn does collapse then, but Liam doesn’t follow, only dips to lick along Zayn’s spine again. When Zayn looks back, muscles in his neck cramping only in the slightest to get a look at the slick, wet lips on Liam’s face. The red flush of his cheeks that makes the exertion worth it. And if Zayn thought he had self-control before, he’s certain he has it now. Positive that if he had any less dignity that he would pull Liam down to him and seal their lips together, never let him move from this spot.

This sticky and wet and _uncomfortable_ spot.

Liam crawls up and collapses right along Zayn, who turns on his side to face him. And that fucking mouth only remains its solitude for a second before Zayn’s doing his best to bite a texture into the plush flesh of Liam’s bottom lip. He slides closer to Zayn, lithe, tangling their ankles together and ignoring the squelch of Zayn’s hole—filled with cum and saliva and a slick that Zayn has to poke Liam in the stomach for giggling at.

“I just took a fucking shower,” Zayn chides, “don’t laugh.”

They remain that way, exchanging lazy kisses, open-mouthed and heavily breathed. It’s sweet and serene and pleasant and so unlike what they just shared. “I have a twelve thousand dollar suit that’s not accommodating to jizz stains. Should have used a condom.”

“We never use a condom,” Liam reminds him, craftily trying to sneak his fingers to the leaking opening of Zayn’s hole. But there’s not time. The sky is too blue, Zayn can tell from here, never the matter the yellowing windows. That means morning has already had the time to slink away form them.

“Let me clean you up, it’ll only take a couple more minutes, promise.” The rows of teeth on display hold the character of a Cheshire, coy and crafty and _no_. “I’ll use my tongue, suck—”

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

Zayn and Liam both jump, which is terrible because Liam is hard-headed as fuck and when their skulls collide, Zayn has to bite back another groan. Because that shrill voice on the other side of the door sounds a lot like Eleanor. “What the fuck?”

“I’m telling you,” she yells again, and that’s definitely her. “This is the last time—the _last_ time I come with Louis to pick you up.”

“I don’t want to move,” Liam mumbles against Zayn’s mouth. “Let’s ignore her.”

“Let’s not,” Zayn suggest instead when Eleanor hammers her fists on Liam’s door, with more ferocity this time.

Their time is over, and well spent it was. Shockingly Zayn’s able to stand, pulling his boxers up as he goes, doing so with as much decorum as he can muster with cum rubbing between the tops of his thighs, messy and gross and a memory that he doesn’t want to carry with him for the duration of the day. Liam’s still on his back, watching all too fondly while Zayn struggles to get his suit out of his garment bag and pull his trousers over his hips.

“I’ll drive myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

There’s not a clock anywhere, but Zayn knows he’s dangerously close to being late for a payroll meeting. His shirt isn’t buttoned and his jacket isn’t straight, but he’s heading for the door nonetheless. “Don’t be late,” he calls behind him. “I swear, Liam. I don’t care what you do with your dick while I’m gone—”

“Think I just took care of that, thanks.”

“—but Dad will rip me a new one if we’re both not there.” Zayn hurriedly ties his shoes, promises himself he’ll add the finishing touches to his attire on the way home. Liam’s finally standing, cock pillowed on his thigh, moving as he walks towards Zayn—and _no,_ he’s not looking. “I know you don’t fucking care, but just—do this for me, yeah? It’s a family thing. I need a united front on this. Please.”

There are arms around Zayn’s waist, and the lips on his silence him and the ramble of words stringing out of his mouth. One corner, than the next. Liam’s forehead meets with Zayn’s, and they share that space again. A second where they freeze, not moving just looking.

“I’ll be at Dad’s house as soon as I get ready,” Liam whispers along Zayn’s chin.

That’s a surrender, all Zayn needs to hear to be okay. Dad, yes. Dad sounds better than Simon. And though the appreciation might not be there—Zayn can see it in the small tense of Liam’s mouth—it’s the effort that brings Zayn’s lips to Liam’s. They keep their eyes open, only closing them when Liam pulls Zayn’s tongue into his mouth, counters his weight with his hands, keeps Zayn in place with fingers attempting to bruise through the layers of his suit.

Liam tastes like toothpaste and must and greed—always tastes like greed, like there’s nothing more he wants than to kiss Zayn—he can feel it. In his arms and words and tongue. “You have an audience waiting outside,” Liam says, teeth still at the skin of Zayn’s lip after he whispers into his mouth. “I think you should go face ‘em.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“People have things to do, you know!” Zayn doesn’t know how he could forget Eleanor was there, with her loud breathing and knocking and existing, but he did, and he knows he’ll regret it for the rest of the day. “I have an agenda that’s not meant to be interrupted by your weird sex fetish. You had all _morning,_ Zayn!”

“She doesn’t sound happy,” Liam murmurs childishly, fingers still running along Zayn’s clothes sides as they listen to Eleanor bumble about.

Zayn coughs into the bare skin of Liam’s shoulder. “When does she ever?”

“ _All morning!_ And you _had_ to wait ‘til we got here.”

“Gotta love Vincero women,” is all Liam says in lieu of Zayn’s red cheeks.

“Fucking animals, I tell you. Men are _pigs._ ”

“That, you do.”

“ _Inconsiderate,_ considerably hot, selfish _fucking pigs_.”

“Promise you won’t be late?” Zayn’s finally come to terms with the fact that Eleanor isn’t going to shut up until Zayn exits this apartment, with Liam in tow or not.

Liam kisses Zayn’s nose, looking mockingly offended when Zayn pushes him away without a kiss back. Knocking Zayn’s chin gently with his knuckles, Liam blinks stupidly with both eyes. “Promise.”

“Did I hear spanking, though? I’m almost 90% sure I heard someone get spanked.”

“Dear god,” Liam groans, swatting at Zayn’s fit of laugher. “Please get her out of my apartment building.”


	3. before it gets any better, we're headed for a cliff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zayn isn't married to Perrie, not even engaged. It's a binding of hands, if you will. Simon has a deal with the Edwards' family that entails services in trade for Perrie being visibly aligned with Simon's son.

Simon has never been one to take the notion of family lightly. Zayn can’t recall a Sunday as a child where he didn’t spend the morning in a pew, trying not to doze off at the incessant rambling of his father’s Priest, Liam at his left and Simon’s mother, Nana Bonnie, at his right.

Notorious was her habit to pat Zayn’s hand and give him a fiver—because he got the privilege of being the favorite, at least until Liam got over his awkward stage and stopped wiping his snot-smeared hands on her chiffon table cloth. There hasn’t been a Sunday that Zayn has not been surrounded by family. Bonnie only has the one son, which is a godsend because they already have a difficult time fitting the family they have around one standard dining room table.

Nan makes linguine that Zayn pretends he doesn’t taste on the end of Liam’s tongue at the end of the day when they trade dirty kisses and even dirtier dishes over the kitchen sink. But for now Zayn has to take a feigned interest in the condemning words spouting from Father Thomas’ mouth, all the while trying not to burst into flames right here in his seat. It’s been a long while since Zayn has felt comfortable amongst all of these people, with all of their different beliefs.

The irony is not lost on him, the laughter stays bubbled in his throat though the reciting of all the sins you’re not supposed to commit, but Zayn does anyway. This row of bodies are the heart of this church, from Randall—Simon’s driver—past Simon, Bonnie, then Niall and Liam and Zayn, right down to Louis sitting nearest the wall. They collecting money and finagle repairs by nurturing each connection they’ve created in the renovation department. Simon’s charitable donations are not to be frowned at. And Niall isn’t only Zayn’s Intelligence consultant, but he’s made the congregation very tech savvy as a favor to Nan and her hatred for reading on anything other than an iPad.  

The biggest contributors are they’re the biggest sinners.

Everyone knows it; no one has to say it. Zayn has blood on his hands and his soul and the aura that surrounds him from day to day. Lying and cheating, even stealing. It’s a part of who they are. Zayn believes their fate lies in the cards that have been dealt; it just so happens that their cards happened to land in the middle of a poker game where the wagers didn’t stop at money, cars, or even guns. _Souls._ Winning would take your soul right out of the running to line up at the pearly gates Father Thomas spent his livelihood preaching about.

Not to mention Zayn’s secret sexuality isn’t in agreement with the rules abided by in the Cathedral, but image is everything, and there isn’t a thing Zayn wouldn’t do for Simon.

When it’s over, they all stand and Liam stretches alongside him, he and Zayn both trying not to bump into the other. Their nerves remain on edge any time they’re in this building. Around it, even. It would be amusing if Zayn wasn’t bothered by the thought of bursting into flames should he and Liam look at one another for too long while he’s standing in the presence of whatever lord Simon and Nan brought them to worship.

“Geez, does the man up front always haf’ta take so long?” The Irishman doesn’t ever fall short of entertaining Zayn, the disheveled blonde tips of his hair separating him from the rest, everyone else slick haired and up-standing.

No sign of wrinkled button-ups or less than impeccable collars, and that’s Zayn’s probable favorite part of coming here, the respect for fine clothing.

Niall yawns beside Zayn’s Nan. “If I knew I had to wait this long to get food, I would have sat in the back, at least. Catch a bit’o shut eye, yeah.”

They’re allowed one stray per Sunday, with the exception of Louis and Randall, who get free lunch not only because they’re the gentlemen responsible for driving them to church in the morning, but because Nana Bonnie thinks Louis has great hair. And poor Randall has never met a dish he didn’t like.

Since Bonnie is closer to Niall than Zayn’s father, she’s the one who swats him. The congregation is making their way out, descending stairs from the upper balcony and filling isles that move at a sluggish pace. Niall’s insistence to be seated next to Nan is one of Zayn’s favorite things about him. That, and his ability to hack any system of communication given a laptop and a sugar-filled motivation.

“He’s preachin’, babe,” Nan says, her clutch whacking Niall playfully one more time when he gives her a consolatory peck on the cheek, the flirt. “Tryin’ to make you see the way of the Lord.”

Niall winks and Zayn shares a sigh with Liam, who’s at his back, both of them following Simon and Randall, and the weird display of affection occurring between Niall and Zayn’s grandmother.

“Ya know the only path ’m trying to follow is the one to your serving table, darlin’.”

Another eye roll as they move only several more paces, the end of the pew only just in sight as people fill out of the Cathedral. “She’s gonna hit you, Nialler,” Louis says from behind Liam, who is making a valiant effort to not let his hands fall to Zayn’s waist from where he is. Not that they would ever do anything in the eyesight of their family, sans for Louis. But contrary to popular belief, Zayn likes being touched by Liam just as much as Liam likes touching him. Zayn won’t cry over milk that he can’t even spill, it’s just—it would be nice, that’s all.

Zayn swallows, listening to Louis directing his speech towards Niall and his grabby hands. “You keep chatting her up like that, mate and she’s gonna slug you.”

Niall shakes his head, correcting Zayn. “She’s gonna _kiss_ me, ol’ Lou. Ain’t that right, baby doll?”

Zayn’s almost 100% sure he’s going to be sick.

“You’re going to stop hitting on my mother, son.” Everyone laughs at Simon then, who looks almost as uncomfortable as Zayn feels, only he has a twinge more grace in how he goes about playfully jibing Niall in the ribs through his wrinkled cardigan. “Or you’re gonna end up walking to the house. Well after lunch is served.”

They’ve reached isle status now, Randall standing at the end of the pew to create a blockage that allows their entire party to file through without problem. Bonnie scoffs on behalf of her received attention, but Zayn knows she loves it. She reaches out to touch Niall’s arm. “Yes, Niall, do stop it.”

Zayn doesn’t have to see his Nan’s face to know she’s being graced with a blush. Compliments are her bread and butter, what she strives for. Although thoroughly disturbed, Zayn is glad that Niall gives her something to smile for on Sunday afternoons.

“Okay, Bon. My apologies.” Niall says it with another kiss to her cheek, the opposite on this time.

And fucking finally, they reach the doors to the exit steps. Almost home free. Liam gets closer, pushes Zayn with his hips a little faster. And Zayn could tell that even if his eyes were shut.  Nothing sexual lies there, just need. A need to get out, because the guilt is biting at Liam’s skin as much as it is Zayn’s. Letting him throw caution out the window as they usher themselves out, the fidget of Liam’s hands noticeable without Zayn having to look back.

Grace is the epitome of his Nan’s spirit, her dangling hand the center of Zayn’s concentration, the crinkled smile on her lips easier to focus on then the knife in his stomach at Liam’s saddened soul. “I was only kidding, Niall.” She winks, Zayn feigns barfing while Liam laughs. “Keep it coming and you’ll get seconds before the rest of the rascals.”

“Hey,” Zayn yells, because it’s not fair, no. Nana Bonnie’s panna cotta is easily something Zayn would take a bullet for.

“Hey yourself,” she responds, turning away from Niall only long enough to pinch the stubbled skin of Zayn’s cheeks between the bones of her fingers.

“You’re _our_ grandmother,” Zayn tries to point out, very conscious of Liam nearly clinging to his back—without actually touching him—and Zayn can’t help it if he extends his hand back, pushes Liam in front of him on the steps so he can pat fleeting comforting strokes at Liam’s back. “He’s not even related to you.”

“I know, dear. That makes the comments all the more genuine.”

They scurry off, but stay fairly close, Niall and Nan. It’s customary to stay behind and engage in small talk, but Zayn is shit at that—unlike his father who is chatting up a lovely man and wife about their new home, and Nan who has Niall on her arm while she’s briefed on the weekly rumor mill—so he stays close to Liam. And relatively close to his car as well. Louis is on guard, there’s never a part of Zayn’s day that he isn’t. He stands stiffly behind Zayn while they wait.

“I think I’m gonna take a cab back to my place so I can change into something more comfortable for lunch.” Liam sniffles, his hand wiping away the phantom cold, and Zayn can’t help but notice Liam’s admission follows a received text message.

They both stand there, looking at one another and waiting for Zayn to speak. And, Zayn genuinely thought Liam was done with this—the shady behavior and weird excuses. When Zayn fails to say anything, Liam nods to himself, and waves goodbye in the general direction of his family. “I’ll just be right back.”

Zayn would be the one to stop him, ideally with a foot to the bum, because the bullshit is blatantly obvious, but he’s not the only one privy to it. No, Nan is the one who gravitates toward them, her insanely good hearing putting a chink in Liam’s armor of lies.

“Nonsense,” and she’s leeching, grabbing Liam’s arm, wrapping her hand around his forearm hard enough for Zayn to notice the taxing white of pressure against Liam’s skin, “I’m sure you have something at my house that will fit. You know you boys always had to have a change of clothes when you came over.” She laughs and it’s authentic, Zayn can tell. There’s not malice in her intent, Bonnie just wants her family gathered around one table. One day of the week, that’s all she asks. Zayn and Liam don’t break eye contact, exchanging digs with no words. Nan pats Liam’s arm, loosens her grip a little when really, she should have tightened it. “Always ripping something, you two were. Or getting it dirty.”

Like either of them need that reminder.

Zayn openly ignores Niall’s scoffing, but vows to give him a firm punch in lieu of repayment later on. Still, he knows Liam has an excellent case, seeing as the last pair of sweats he’d left at Bonnie’s wouldn’t even fit over _Zayn’s_ thighs. “No, Nan. Lunch is a classy affair, I want to be dressed as nice as possible.” Liam says, holding up a finger when Nan starts to speak. “But if I’m going to stay until dinner tonight, I’d like to be dressed in something I can move around in.”

Liam can wear a suit from sun up to sun down and not complain, externally, at least. So it really must be something else. Liam stops looking at him. And really, really Zayn wishes he didn’t feel like Liam was lying to his face. But it’s an unshakable feeling. When Zayn sees his father making his way to the curb, where they’ve arranged to be parked, Zayn claps his hands and spends a deal of time rubbing them together before speaking.

“Liam, what you have on is fine.” Zayn does a double take, sees the soft slacks covering Liam’s legs instead of a dressier attire. Like the pressed suit pants on Zayn’s hips. Ignoring that, he carries on, not in the mood for Liam’s nonsense this afternoon. “I hardly think slacks will be a bother for the rest of the day. There’s enough room in my car, let’s just go.”

Zayn walks without looking back; hoping Liam will follow if he knows what’s best for him.

“I’m uncomfortable, I want to change.”

And what a stupid fucking assumption that was.

Zayn doesn’t grit his teeth, but it’s a near affair. “Get in the _fucki—_ ”

Nan’s gentle hands are there to stop Zayn from slugging Liam, not that he’s close enough to do so, but he’s tempted to walk closer. Her hand rises in the air, a stopping motion that Zayn recognizes all too well from his childhood. “Zayn, if the boy wants to change, let him change. It just means more snacks for you, yes?”

She’s placating him—picking her battles, she used to call it—and Zayn doesn’t like it one bit. But it seems to work if the pout of Liam’s lip is any indication. “Nan, I’m only going to be gone for a shake.” Liam stumbles for words and Zayn fights a smirk because it has no merit here, won’t help him if Nan sees it. “I’m just changing and uh, then I’m coming back. Zayn always makes me wear—”

Deflection, the bastard. “I don’t _make_ you do anything.”

“You threatened to set my apartment on fire,” argues Liam, and the vein in his forehead does nothing to discourage Zayn from stepping closer, Nan’s hand not being enough this time. Liam’s raising his stupid eyebrows and trying to move out of Bonnie’s grip. His eyes are cold and mean and Zayn wishes Liam would fucking _talk_ to him without the pretense of an argument. “You specifically said if I didn’t put this on at Si— _Dad’s_ house that you would buy out my apartment complex and then burn it to the ground.”

But if it’s a fight he wants, Zayn can surely provide. “I was kidding, for fuck’s sake. I say that _literally_ all the time.”

Nan laughs, though Zayn fails to find anything funny, and Dad does the parting this time, attracted by the tense utterings of his sons. One more fucking grateful than the other, he thinks to himself. And if Zayn had the slightest lack of tenacity he would shake Liam—back and forth and back and forth—until the tension seeped out of his shoulders at the appearance of Simon on the cathedral steps.

“Now what are you to on about this time?”

Simon’s broad, only has to stand in the middle of them to be considered a separation. The shaded sun is good on his features, allows the world to see him as a handsome man. One with a bitter charm and a sense of reasonableness that made him exceptionally personable on the scratching surface.

Liam doesn’t seem to be effected by said charm, the flinch at Simon’s touch a heavy indication. “Noth—”

“This time, dear?” Nan seems none too pleased at the hint of their recent disagreements.

Liam and Zayn are forced to stand there, the man responsible for raising them the only thing standing between them. One boy under each arm, Bonnie relinquishes Liam in favor of her son tending to his boys. It should be a sweet sight, but Zayn feels it. Feels the resentment and confusion coming from Liam. It’s a stench, something that’s noticeable on all levels of sense. “I caught ‘em near blows in the bathroom this morning, Ma. Zayn almost had to strangle Liam to keep him in that tie.”

“Trust me, that’s a tame amount of blowin’, Mr. Cowell,” Niall unhelpfully taunts.

Liam reddens and Zayn rages, both of them skirting around the elephant standing with them on the steps, openly exposed thanks to the free loading, Irish hacker standing at the arm of Zayn’s grandmother. Simon pats the both of them, no real resolution put to work, and steps aside, leaves them to it, knowing they won’t go at one another’s throat with the silent order Simon’s put through by inserting himself into the situation.

“Gonna pretend I didn’t hear that Niall and keep my morning crepes safely in my stomach,” Simon laughs in jest. Zayn’s given a look, one that he doesn’t get often because he’s not one to step out of line, especially not on Sundays. Zayn nods and that’s all the confirmation Simon needs before kissing both of them on the forehead, a gesture predicated from generations past. Liam does good not to flinch, but Zayn can still see the discomfort and that still makes him boil. “Should we go eat, hmm?”

“Sounds wonderful to me, son.” Nana Bonnie is the epitome of exuberant grace, hooking her arm with Niall’s and letting him lead her down the steps. “Come along, Niall. You can ride in the back with me.”

“Oh, mother. Please, no.”

Simon is still by Liam, waiting for his decision. Because he’s the fucking wildcard, with his temper and his tantrums and his craving for disobedience. Zayn watches him shift under Simon’s hand, like it’s a leech taking sustenance from his body—a parasite that’s eating away at him and fuck—it’s just a hand. Five fingers, four fingers and a thumb if technicality is in your spirit.

Zayn thought they had gotten over this, it’s been weeks. Weeks following Zayn’s attempt to scour Liam’s apartment for answers he promised Liam he didn’t need. Weeks since Liam gave Zayn the impression that his conundrum with his inner feelings toward Simon had subsided. Yet, here they are, on a Sunday afternoon, no less—the very day this family is celebrated—and the grimace gracing his features is that of a disgusted man.

“You know what?” Zayn shakes his head, already on his way to his car, where Louis is waiting with the door ajar because he’s looking for a big fucking tip. That, or he knows Zayn. Knows today is one of those days Zayn would rather not be bothered with mundane tasks. He waves Liam off with nonchalance, smoothing the blend of his jacket and continuing to lead himself to his car. “Go change your fucking clothes. Or don’t. Come to lunch looking like a slob, or just come late. It’s not my appearance, my schedule, or my business. I don’t care.”

“Zayn.”

He scoffs at Liam’s audacity to sound hurt. Offended. Zayn swats away his hurt feeling and takes out a bill, two just in case. Zayn turns around, where Liam is right there waiting. He holds out his hand. “Here, take this. It should be enough money for a cab.”

Liam doesn’t take it, head shaking, lip jutted in wounded frustration. “I have enough money for a ride across town, Zayn.”

Zayn shrugs instead, channels his anger into energy. Powers his body with the irritation Liam’s feeding into. “Then I’ll see you at lunch, then.”

“Zayn, plea—”

“Liam, son?” Zayn wants to laugh, does laugh because Simon is calling his _son._ The son who wishes he was naught. “Take a walk with me?”

Zayn doesn’t turn around to watch Liam’s reaction, only folds himself into his vehicle. He does hear Liam, though. Hears the, “Sure,” that doesn’t sound as such. He watches out the window, sees his father sling an arm over the back of Liam’s stiffening shoulders, and Zayn’s ready to get out. To swing. To hit his target because Liam isn’t being _fair._ It’s not fair that he gets to harbor feelings toward Simon that Simon is not yet aware of.

But Zayn leaves them behind. Focuses more on the sound of Louis turning over the engine and taking them away. They’ll meet up at Nan’s in a flash, most likely arrive before the hostess does. So Zayn sits there, memorizes the stitching of the passenger seat while they sit idle in the church parking lot, waiting for a break in traffic so they depart.

And he’s glad, Zayn is. Glad that they’re still on holy ground, because if Zayn’s going to say silent prayers, he might as well be somewhere that will get him as close to the ears of God as possible.

**/////**

It’s customary for Italian mothers to live with their sons once they’re surpassed a certain age. But as Nana Bonnie loves to point out, she’s only a little Italian. Enough so to make Rascherra but not enough to demand a room in Simon’s house. Of course those rules would have more chance of sticking if Nan was like any other grandmother Zayn had encountered.

Bonnie gets around her house just fine, requesting help only if it comes in the form of a handsome man. The house holds value to her, makes her smile when she sits on the porch and reminiscences about the many adventures she and her late husband had around the place they raised a child in. It’s the same house Zayn’s father called home as a young boy. So he likes it, likes imagining Simon running around both yards, the north and the south, getting caught up in his own imagination.

He wonders where it was his father taught Simon to shoot a gun. Often, Zayn wonders that.

Bonnie does have a team of help that’s accountable for the upkeep of he estate—a lovely Indonesian woman named Cilly who assists Nan in making her bed, and a gardener from the sunny paradise of Brazil that sculpts Nan’s flowers into a beautiful garden, so kind as so take Bonnie on a hand-held tour when her arthritis flared. But on Sundays they join their own families with pre-made dishes from Nan’s kitchen.

Therein, her favorite men—apart from Robert De Nero and Scott Mills—are responsible for the setting of the table and the separating of daily chores amongst themselves. Just one day a week, maybe once a month if Zayn and Simon have a busy schedule. Simon and Randall are in the south yard, the larger of the two, both of them pretending not to be squeamish around the hounds tugging at their chains. Nan locks them up for the safety of others, not vice versa.

Niall would be Nan’s taste tester if he didn’t devour the entirety of an appetizer tray three Sundays prior. That left him picking flowers for a centerpiece and trying not to let his allergies ruin the daisies. Louis is off somewhere, no doubt brown-nosing. That, or running his hand along the vehicles in the garage. As actual family—or as close to grandchildren as Nana Bonnie is going to get—Liam and Zayn are designated to the kitchen. Zayn’s never excelled at preparing cured meat, something Liam and Nan share an unusual bond over, but he can plate well, and his garnishes are second to no one else working in the kitchen.

“So tell me what’s off-kilter with your father and your…Liam.” Zayn hears the hesitation, cultivates the thought that she’s not shy to the idea of whatever it is he and Liam share. It’s the same presence she always radiates, kind and liberal with a refusal to be left in the dark. “And don’t feed me lies, baby, I get enough of those from my many gentleman callers.”

The ease in which she diffuses smarmy situations is a feat that Zayn wouldn’t have wanted to learn from anyone else. She speaks with a wink lingering afterward, handing Zayn peppers to cut in Liam’s absence. Zayn clicks his tongue at her and aligns himself with a cutting board. “Now Nan, don’t tell me you’re stepping out on Mr. Wilfred.” Chop, chop, chop. Zayn presses down quickly each time and prays he misses his fingers. “Not only does he do wonders on your plumbing, but I heard he lays _great_ pipe.”

Nan swats at him and they trade boards. Zayn starts on garlic this time, which is harder but less harsh on his senses. “It’s none of your business who lays my pipe, young man. Unless you have any recommendations?”

Zayn groans, but tries hard to keep his concentration on the task at hand. “Nan, gross.”

“You’re the one that brought it up, honey.” They stand like that, trading materials back and forth, vegetable after vegetable. She won’t let him touch any meat. Though the sun-kissed hide of her hands is fragile, that doesn’t stop her from snatching a handful of celery away from Zayn when the turn of his wrist isn’t fine enough for a proper chopped garnish. “But don’t you go changing the subject. What’s wrong with my babies?”

Zayn can’t put this thumb on the response he’s supposed to have. He settles for, “You know Liam and Pops never see eye to eye.”

It sounds good enough, releases some of the undeniable pressure on Zayn’s shoulders to keep his family together. To keep Liam happy, and Simon as well, regardless if they share blood or not.

“I know you and Liam never see eye to eye,” she says, skirting around Zayn to stir the contents of a pan. And the light makes her beautiful. Ageless. Graceful. “Which means my son and your _—Liam—_ only ever disagree where you’re involved.”

Zayn has the right to come off as petulant, only it gets him no where. Nan’s stare is equally as hard after he stomps his foot as it was before. “Well this time it wasn’t me.”

“Then tell Nana Bonnie what’s gnawing at you, son.”

Zayn sags against the counter, passing Nan the last of her chopped greenery. “I thought we were talking about Liam?”

“What effects Liam effects you, hun.” She gives Zayn back the celery in a bowl, the damp, fresh greens bearing a parallel to the new chance Zayn’s being given, the unbidden new start given at his Nan’s hands. “Do with this what you will, I trust you.”

Bonnie smiles and Zayn feels it down to his toes. She’s warm, always so warm.

“Now,” she says, waiting for Zayn to get started, to grab sauces and spices and other components that will make a small side come to life on a plate, “my other grandson is across town putting those nice legs o’ his into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for Sunday brunch. That’s the only thing I can think of that’d be more comfortable than _cotton slacks._ Obviously he’s far from help,” they both laugh in agreement, moving in sync around he kitchen, faucets running in the background, fires warming their food, Niall sneezing somewhere in the house—the acoustics carrying and adding fodder to their laughter. “So I’ll just have to start with you.”

Zayn’s mouth opens to whisper a lie but it floods cotton into his mouth. He’s at a loss for phrases that correlate with Liam’s troubles, so he’s stuck letting the truth blurt from his mouth to Nan’s ears. “I think he’s looking into his parents.”

To her credit, Nan doesn’t let the shock shine through the artfully crafted, relaxed muscles of her face. “Simon’s first fiancé isn’t much to write home about.”

“Nan—”

“And as you know, Simon isn’t one to keep a paper trail.”

If Zayn had spent his summer weekends partying and waking up next to different combinations of porcelain and toilet bowl cleaner instead of trying to expel the smell of arugula and extra virgin olive oil from his nostrils in this very kitchen, he wouldn’t be able to detect the shake of deception in Bonnie’s hands. And to be frank, Zayn’s rather tired of being deceived. “You know that’s not what I mean, Nan.”

She sighs, and it’s just as heavy as the release of air Zayn breathed earlier, if not more overbearing. It makes her small, little shoulders shake oddly. Zayn can’t say he’s used to seeing her in distress, light or heavy. Nan takes on the world with a lifted pinky and a crafty smile. “I was afraid of that.”

All his thoughts fall out, laid on the counter in a metaphorical sense. Everything Zayn’s assumed in the past few weeks comes to a head, just falls forth because he doesn’t know long he can store those thought there. “I know he’s looking for something. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know where he plans to find it, but I do know he’s searching and I know it’s not going to end well.”

“How do you know it’s—”

How does Zayn ever know? It’s Liam. It’s his job to know. “He refuses to call Simon his dad, preached some bullshit about how he wasn’t our real father.” Zayn has to stop mixing, sees the bruising of his meal and stops. He has to stop. “I know he’s not,” he sighs. And Zayn hates that deep breaths of exasperation are his default setting today, hates it. “I know he’s not our dad. And thank fuck Liam and I aren’t related because—”

“I know, sweetheart.” Nan’s smile should be off-putting, the coy of her grin nothing to be seen on a woman of her age.

Zayn tries not to shift at that, does a piss poor job but continues talking. Because what the fuck else is he going to do? “But he raised us when we had no one else. We could have been tossed around with a bloke that just wanted us for money. Separated, Nan.” Zayn’s hand doesn’t sting when it leaves it’s impression on the counter in the form of a palm shaped smudge, but his heart does. Fucking clichés and all that. The twinge in his heart is very real at the thought of Liam growing up without Zayn at his side. “They wouldn’t have kept us together—Dad did. I don’t, fuck, I don’t think he understands that.”

“I see.” Nan’s brisk around her tasks and Zayn wishes he had something else to do, something he was better at. Wishes he didn’t leave his piece in the car or his knife at the back of Louis’ suit pocket. Though, they wouldn’t do him any good, would only rile him where he needs obvious calming. His knuckles crack under pressure, the popping drawing Nan’s attention away from her bread and to the sunken features of Zayn’s face. She dabbles her hand in his direction. “Would you be a doll and hand me the ginger—oi, no. I think I’ll make a stuffed Focaccia, hand me the sausage instead.”

Zayn does his very best to remain composed, flexes his fingers and slows down his breathing—in and out, steady—and the flash of red across his brain is only a mental image, but it’s a perfect depiction of the slander Bonnie has just slung across Zayn’s worries and doubts.

“That’s all you have for me?” Zayn watches her float around him, smart enough to deduce Zayn’s lack of enthusiasm for kitchen errands with his face as red as it is. He’s not certain of shade, but he knows he feels hot under the collar, boiling at the insignificance of his concerns matched with the quality of her fucking bread. “That’s it? Liam’s pulling the ‘oh, wah, I’m adopted’ card and you want me to pass you the curry?”

“We wouldn’t want everyone to go hungry, would we? Just under thirty minutes and noon will arrive, and I’m never late. Not for Sunday lunch.” Bonnie pinches his cheek, follows it with a pat that he has to fight not turn away from. And fuck all, because he’s hurt. And it hurts more than anything that he’s dejected at the hands one of the only women he’ll ever truly care for. “And don’t be silly, Zayn. No one puts curry in bread.”

It isn’t the mental support Zayn was rooting for. Liam is spiraling; Zayn can see it in the missed meetings and the locked apartment doors and the—the fucking flinching. And Bonnie wants to spice the Focaccia. “ _Fuck,_ Nan. I want—I _need_ your help on this.”

“Watch your language.”

“His parents are fucking dead, burned alive. There is nothing for him to find.” Zayn walks around the island, his soles kind to the floor because he doesn’t have it in him to stomp. He’s exhausted, worn out. “I’m an excellent exaggerator, but not this time. Liam won’t find anything, Nan. He’s going—he’s going to get his heart broken.”

He forks his fingers through his hair—doesn’t pull for lack of desire to leave behind evidence of his distress. Falling, falling, Zayn’s falling. The details of his seating aren’t clear—what with the train boarding his thoughts running rampant off the fore-placed set of tracks.

The kitchen window is open and there’s so much light, too much. Zayn needs darkness, belongs in it, needs to bathe in it.

But there’s a small silhouette to keep it away and when Zayn opens the eyes he hadn’t realized he screwed shut, she _is_ there for him. Right there in front of him, light burning at her back. It shines around Bonnie and Zayn wishes he had a drink at this very second because his grandmother is passing for an angel—white hair and translucent skin only helping her case. And the insane notion of a guardian is something Zayn would like to take a drink to.

But maybe it’s not so crazy, maybe she is all of those things.

God knows that Zayn desperately needs someone who’s watching his back.

“You think this is about you, son?” Her voice is kinder, soft like Bonnie’s placating him, but Zayn likes it. Likes it better than the condescending one previously in its place. Her eyes, Zayn never loses sight of her eyes. “You knew your mother and your father, even your sister.”

Zayn shakes his head, corrects her. “No, I didn’t have a sister.”

“You had a lot of things, my sweet boy.” Her hands pile onto his, both of them right there. Separate mountains of limbs and emotions and breathing patterns, connected by two pairs of hands. “Just because you don’t remember them, doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.”

That’s not right. Because Zayn does remember. Remembers that night, and that’s all that he should need. The shrieking face of his mother, burning and peeling flesh. And screams, so many screams. His father should have been there, men are supposed to protect their families. So as far as Zayn is concerned, he’s a part of history that doesn’t matter. A failure. And a sister, well. Well, that’s just absurd.

Zayn shrugs the false concept of a sibling off his shoulders and sits up straighter, careful not to let the light escape Nan’s profile. “So what? Life isn’t about what you—”

“Isn’t about what you had,” Nan pats his hand again, and Zayn is only slightly offended when she takes her eyes off him when her oven beeps. The bashfulness of her smile is enough of a consolation, and she’s patting his hand once more. A grandmother thing. “Who do you think taught you that, boy?”

She did.

“Why would he want to get to know someone he’s never gonna see?” It’s senseless, and Zayn’s having trouble making heads or tails of it. There’s no connection to be had, Liam’s fishing for a dead catch. Zayn sighs, waves Bonnie away when the oven beeps again, because as conflicted as Zayn is, he doesn’t want to eat burnt food. “He’s sensitive, Nan. He doesn’t think he is, but I know him. Li’s gonna fall in love with his parents, whoever the fuck his mum is, and especially who his dad is. That’s just who he is—don’t forget to use pot-holders, Nan, _goodness—_ and when it’s all over, he’s going to cry a bucket of _tears_.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to pour out the fucking bucket when he’s done.”

Zayn laughs and lets the leather of her hands soothe him on her way to back to the pantry, her meal officially done. It’s all old and familiar, a comfort right now with Liam’s mind heading north of what Zayn has spent his life standing firm in believing was right. His moral code of taking what he has and not complaining. Making the most of it and enhancing his opportunities should he be unsatisfied.

Zayn has to admit, the Focaccia looks amazing, as do the rest of the dishes. Steaming and fragrant and spread out, something she can share with her family. A treat to them for loving her. One that Zayn gives in the form of discipline and cheek kisses. He prefers things in line where as Nan appreciates the circle of life and it’s fluidity. Zayn doesn’t know how to handle things that he can’t control—doesn’t like when he can’t manage Liam. But to Bonnie, to everyone but Zayn, honestly, life is interchangeable. There are solutions that lie outside of the boxes he lives his life in.

“Liam wants to know where he comes from, and even if you don’t agree with what he’s doing, don’t you try and stop him.”

Zayn tries to swallow his pride, but is afraid he’ll choke on it. “He’s gonna get hurt.”

“Let him get hurt.”

Zayn doesn’t know how to take that. But he tries, and he does his best. Does it with a fucking smile and picks at his nails ever the while.

Nan is ready for lunch, ready to call Niall in from wherever he’s hiding in order for him to set the table. She doesn’t look troubled at all, no worry in the softly wrinkled skin around her eyes. Bonnie is the picture of everything Zayn wants to be. The balance she maintains with the weight of the world—of an entire family—rested upon her shoulders is something he tries to emulate in corrected posture and an upward slope of his neck.

 “What if he doesn’t like what he finds?” Zayn’s careful and collected and trying—really fucking trying—not to sound like a mess. As if Liam’s quest for answers isn’t wrecking him. Because dammit, Zayn should be enough. “What if he goes out and does whatever the fuck he plans on doing and _hates_ it, Nan? What if he honestly doesn’t like what he finds?”

But she sees right through it, Zayn’s façade never one fooling her in the past, nor the present. “Most people looking for who they are never do.”

**/////**

Zayn stands there, moves when the pot of rice boils—Niall loves rice—but never for anything more. Everyone is gathered, sitting around the table while Zayn finishes this last task. He can hear them, the echo of the dining room is overwhelming, Zayn tries to block it out. Stays idle, never moves.

The sink is underneath the same window Zayn was trying to avoid earlier, he faces it now. Zayn closes his eyes to the sun and lets his hands remove the jitters from his body by scrubbing away at dishes underneath his fingertips. A head start, because washing before the meal was smart. And prided himself on being that; smart.

Smart is something Zayn can measure. There are levels and balances and labels.

It hurts, the sun does. Zayn hasn’t the slightest clue why. When he does open his eyes to the vision of Nan’s backyard, the first instinct he has is to ignore the red. He’s been doing it for weeks now.

Zayn won’t be naive and say that the most recent sighting of the girl in his nightmares isn’t that cause, she is. But dwelling over it, wincing when he sees a bird with red rings or a girl in a red coat, it’s ridiculous. Especially now, when Zayn is standing inside one of the safest places his mind can recall. So he ignores the glaring colors of Simon’s old swing set—red and white and wooden—and trains his eyes on the grass.

Yeah, that’s better.

Zayn thinks it looks sickly and lonely, not green enough. The grass. Maybe because the sun only peeks through the clouds far enough to touch the trees. The leaves and their branches, but not the grass. But that can’t be right, because no matter how unsightly the green of the grass is, Zayn still sees it as green. Green means life, no matter how distorted the hue. Zayn scrubs as hard as he squints, and upon looking closer Zayn _sees_ the greenery around the yard, all of it grows from the rain—surviving off the downpour. The neglect isn’t as obvious now, not from where Zayn is standing.

He can feel Liam before he turns around to verify his being there. And when Zayn does turn, his grimy, wet dishpan hands don’t stop him from taking a chance.

Zayn can grow, he can thrive in the downpour.

_Fuck the sun._

Liam promised to wear something nice, and there he is with a pair of cotton sweats that Zayn wants to rip off for completely non-sexual reasons. Zayn can easily spot the indentions of too-tight cuffs very recently wrapped around Liam’s wrist—but he swallows the need to shine light on whatever lie required Liam to stay in a suit and change before walking through Nan’s front door. Zayn wants the unveiling of truth to be voluntary.

There’s an apology on Liam’s tongue, but Zayn makes it across the kitchen and glues himself to Liam’s front before he can open his mouth to speak. Zayn could almost laugh at the near shock in Liam’s eyes, and the instant flush of his cheeks.

Zayn cranes his neck backward, an involuntary smile spreading across the lower half of his face. “Did you think I was going to hit you?”

He holds Liam’s face in his hands, the streaks of soap and water making rivers down his cheeks, soaking into the white of his t-shirt. Fucking t-shirt to Sunday— _no,_ _no judging._ Liam’s smile is beautiful and full-lipped and Zayn can only bask in the row of teeth he’s shown on behalf of Liam’s delight. He shakes his head back and forth, hands steady where they fall around the waist of Zayn’s dress pants.

“No, I was just baffled by the vision of you doing the dishes without your special gloves.” Liam thinks he’s just _so funny_. Zayn stripes his nose with a soapy finger. Liam is still pure sunshine, Zayn wonders how he can stand in front of him and not want to wince in the other direction. “No,” he applauds sarcastically, giving Zayn a celebratory pat on the hip, still fucking laughing. “It’s very matronly of you. Dishpan hands are very in right now.”

Zayn could tell Liam to fuck off, briefly thinks about doing just that—but Zayn needs to fall. Right now. He needs to fall even more in love with Liam’s smile, and his determination to make a mess out of his life. Zayn needs to fall to his knees in defeat over so many things, but those are the most important things, Liam’s smile and need for self destruction. Zayn needs to fall, and he needs everything about Liam to catch him.

Broaching the subject in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, Zayn lets his wet hands rest at the top of Liam’s shoulders, picking at string he’s not sure was loose before his jittered fingers got a hold of it. “You’re going to really hate it, you know.”

Confusion looks good on Liam, Zayn decides. Gives him the chance to use his brows to their full and large potential. “What exactly am I going to hate?”

Zayn doesn’t have to try hard to connect their foreheads, wants to get as close to Liam as possible. Lips, they’re a breath apart. Zayn could be kissing Liam right now, anyone could stumble in, and they could see how Zayn loves Liam with all the heart he has left.

That scares him, but it feels really, really good. Zayn jumps into the unknown with both feet. “Your parents are going to be shitty.” Liam’s mouth falls aghast, be it brief or not, and objectively that’s all the confirmation Zayn needs. He never stops picking at that string. “And there won’t be enough blowjobs in the world to make up for all the lies you keep telling me or the tears you’ll undoubtedly get on one of _many good_ suits I own.”

“How did you—”

Zayn wanted him to deny it, but he shreds that last hope and tries to make his smile as believable as he can muster, looking directly into the sunlight. He shrugs, hands done prodding broken strings. “I guessed and you confirmed.”

“Sneaky.” Zayn can see that Liam doesn’t know what to feel other than caught, but he plays it with grace that Zayn won’t tell him he got from Simon.

Zayn makes a happy spectacle of nodding, coyly displaying a grin and running his jitter-absent hands down the front of Liam’s ridiculously inappropriate shirt. “That, I am.”

Liam takes the chance for Zayn, kisses him right there on the mouth. Zayn’s hands are dry by now, his palms are anyway. It’s just peck after peck with laughs in between because Zayn is falling and Liam doesn’t even know it. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he’s laughing too. “You know, you said this last time, and I still caught you going through my freezer when you thought I was sleeping.”

Red handed and red-faced, Zayn sighs. Caught is a contagious trend this afternoon. “You knew about that?”

“No,” Liam shakes his head and they find themselves in another kiss. Dry and chaste and simple, everything that they just don’t normally do. “I guessed and you confirmed.”

Zayn’s fallen and Liam is where he’s landed.

“It won’t be all that bad, Zayn.”

Zayn could be blunt, tell Liam that it will be. But Zayn’s already driven his dreams into the ground, given him his predictions so Liam could soar with the knowledge of the cards stacked against him. Zayn can’t protect him from everything, all he’s left to do now is nod, and maybe kiss Liam one more time. “Okay.”

“There’s so much more to it than what you’re seeing,” Liam says once his lips are free, his voice coated with mystery that Zayn will delve into at another date.

But Zayn doubts that, that there’s more. They’re back story isn’t interesting or novel-worthy, it’s a tragedy that should stay a tragedy. Again, though, Zayn finds himself nodding, giving Liam the assurance of his temporary trust.  “Alright, Liam. Whatever you say.”

“Kiss me again?” They subsist with the struggles on their backs, each of their problems concealed from the other. Liam kisses Zayn again, the laughter of the people they love just beyond their reach. And if they stretch hard enough they’ll have a happiness of their own. One that they can share. No more secrets. No more hiding. Zayn just has to drift into it, sail. “And then stir your rice because I think it might be done.”

Zayn knows, he hears it over bubbling.

Niall can bitch about his precious rice later, Zayn’s busy falling.

He’ll make it up to him. Perhaps take Niall out to Donegal’s after he’s dug up the ancestry of Liam’s family for Zayn’s benefit. And any other documents that might catch the eye of the boy Zayn never wants to see hurt. Couldn’t bear it.

Because Zayn might be embracing his need to fall, but he’s not going to do it with his eyes closed.

He’s claiming to be spontaneous, not bloody stupid.

**/////**

Zayn doesn’t make a habit of straying from his office—the one in his bar, that his colleagues frequent—doesn’t see the use in having an open door policy if he can never be found in his own establishment. Regardless of his desire not to leave during business hours though, Zayn would never send out a piss-boy to run the errands of a boss. That’s why he’s out now, cruising town on leads for rats.

“Did Simon really send you out to check on the La Fazia cousins?” Louis sips on his coffee, hand still on the wheel where they sit, parked on the street. Its overcast outside, and the chill makes Zayn smile when he steps outside, no sun in sight. “Are they that big of a deal? I don’t see big Si being too worried.”

Zayn looks up from his phone, waits for Louis to place his drink in the cup holder and get out of the vehicle. “No, it was my idea to come after ‘em,” he says, honestly. He sighs, because the contrast of air pressure inside the car and out fucks with his breathing patterns. “I heard some things, and I don’t trust either man for shit. Plus, it beats sitting at home with Perrie and fielding Simon’s guests all day.”

“I thought Liam did all of that, making appointments and shit for Simon.”

He did, or at least Liam used to. All Zayn knows is that Simon’s had Antoine’s girl Rita doing call work for two weeks in Liam’s place. That’s not Louis’ place to know, though, so Zayn keeps his information brief. “No one really knows what Liam does these days.”

Zayn leaves it at that, knows Louis can appreciate that he really doesn’t want to talk about it any further. He readjusts his weapon, smoothes the panels of his jacket, and jangles the watch at the end of his wrist. Louis isn’t as peculiar with detail, but Zayn does notice the slight shift in his gait as an indication of added weight below his ankle. “Either you’ve got a blade in your hosiery, or I’m being treated to the post-morning effects of another night with Violet.”

“Jasmine,” corrects Louis, his expression sour.

Zayn pockets his phone and laughs into the crook of his elbow, eyebrows raised. “The one with the paddle?”

Louis’ laugh is as dry as the air that touches their faces, though it does leave behind more warmth as it passes. They walk alongside each other, stepping in quiet synchronization through the mix of bodies and noise passing them on the sidewalk while Louis explains. “It’s an X-Acto. Paul swiped it off some guy at the door and kicked him out on his ass an hour later. I didn’t realize how heavy it would be, but I’m pretty good with it. Been practicing.”

Zayn laughs, holds an arm out to stop Louis from walking into traffic. “Is that so?”

They’ve parked fairly close to their destination, Zayn not being one to walk any more than called for. Their walk across a busy street is short and lacks life changing experiences. Nothing threatening involved sans for the less than sanitary state of the residents. Louis pulls the open the door of their intended shop for Zayn, and they both laugh at the cowbell alerting customers of their entrance. “I thought I was handling it pretty well, though. Walking with the knife, I mean.” Zayn laughs at the cavalier way Louis shrugs. “Guess not.”

“No,” Zayn admits openly, keeping his decorum as they stand undetected at the back of the store, both of them standing to watch has patrons recognize either Zayn’s face or the gun at his hip. Louis chokes back a laugh at the terror of a bulked man, and Zayn finishes his sentence. “You hide it well, I just prefer to keep tabs on the days you walk around with a stick up your ass.”

Never disappointing Zayn with a lack of wit, Louis responds in kind. “You’re one to talk, boss.”

“Touché.”

Zayn doesn’t like it this far north of Tommy Bulca’s—the last and final shop on the less elegant side of town where a suitable jacket and tie can be found. The air on this side of town doesn’t fare well with Zayn’s allergies, and the density the population is far from adjacent to the space available. Zayn’s not anal enough to trot around with sanitary wipes at his disposal, but he won’t say he hasn’t considered it a time or two.

Marc Enstrassa keeps a place three streets over from Tommy’s, just a mile over Zayn’s imperious border. And it shows.

“Zayn! What a surprise!” Marc’s teeth yellow as easily as the walls of his building. And finally, after the store has emptied of what few patrons it had, Zayn and Louis are noticed. Louis does Zayn’s scoping, finds the nearest exits and entrances and catalogues all the windows. It’s not crowded when they enter, but it empties the longer they stand inside. The longer they look. “What can I do for you?”

The company Marc keeps here makes Zayn question the integrity of any deal his father has made with this man. Grease ridden men with slimy hair and even slicker smiles creep out; take their broad-chested women with them. It smells of old leather in his place—a pawn shop in it’s lowest form.

Zayn really hates pawn shops.

“I’m great, Mr. Enstrassa, great to see you.” It’s not, never is, but Zayn was raised with manners.

The store front is large enough to accommodate guests, but the bulk of merchandise is behind the service desk. Zayn’s aware of a hidden door, one used to house his more lucrative exports, but it’s hidden after all. Meaning Marc knows where it is, but Zayn does not. That’s only a problem if Zayn were to have the inclination of Marc hiding something Zayn wants found.

And the beads of sweat making tracks down Marc’s face, over his brow and down the side of his robust cheeks _—hilarious—_ tell Zayn that he is. Hiding something.

Louis doesn’t take a seat in the disarray of chairs lined to the left of the door, but he does give Zayn a wide berth. Walls have the burden of carrying the weight of knick-knacks and unwanted electronics. Zayn shakes his head, has trouble understanding why anyone would want an item thrown aside at the hands of another.

If it’s tossed away, something has to be damaged, and Zayn’s never been a fan of damaged goods.

But he’s here to cast an eye on the La Fazia cousins, not the participants of the bargain industry. Zayn steps around a thin woman, smiles at her politely and wishes he hadn’t when she pouts her lips seductively, red lipstick making his vision blur for a moment. He recovers and leans a hip against the counter, folds his arms and looks at Marc.

They stand in silence a while longer, because Zayn so does enjoy watching people squirm.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Ross and Andrew are, would you, Marc?”

He shakes, they always shake. It’s the power in a name, Zayn supposes. He can’t imagine he holds a great feat of intimidation in the structure of his appearance. The sun fails to lay a kind gesture to Marc, his inadequate hairline highlighted by the shine in its glare under the hard lighting. Marc has wrinkles of age that Zayn’s father does not, though Zayn knows them both to be equals in the respect of years lived. Only Marc never progressed, stayed huddled in the corner while Simon rose to oversee him.

His head shakes again. Zayn will never know how people can do that, _succumb._

Still, not judging.

“Is there a reason you’re asking?” And really, Marc should know that’s the wrong answer. _Rat._ Or a roach at the very least, that’s what Zayn sees Marc as. “They didn’t do anything wrong, did they? You know I would hate to see those boys in trouble.” Zayn watches him speak, lets Marc dig his own grave with lie after lie, and each mistruth disguised by good intent. “The La Fazia’s have been real good to everyone around here.”

Zayn sighs and wiggles two fingers in the air, a signal that prods Louis into running an inspection. Marc stands from his stool behind the register when Louis makes headway towards the back of the store—which is empty now, cleared out moments after Zayn’s arrival.

_The power of a name._

Marc tries to talk, but Zayn stops him, holds up a hand and revels in the stopping action of Marc’s mouth at the wave of a few fingers. _So much power._ “You know what I hate, Mr. Enstrassa? When I need _answers,_ but my questions are only met with _more_ questions.”

There isn’t any ransacking, Zayn has more class than that. But Louis does root around long enough to discover a door behind a par of rolling speakers. _Amateurs._ Zayn doesn’t have to open his mouth before Marc is opening his, spilling information like Zayn had physically turned him over. It’s almost too fucking easy.

“Look,” he bargains, information coming forth quick enough to stop Louis from pulling open the door. “Andrew is back there sleeping, he’s had—he just got back, let him sleep.”

Of course Andrew is back there, because Marc Enstrassa in the only person so far away from Simon’s radar—a close childhood friend—that he would escape the wrath should anything go wrong during their stay. Only Simon wasn’t suspicious, Zayn was. Two very contrasting personalities, their differences including the way they solve problems.

Zayn coughs and Louis stops moving. He wants to see how much he can get out of Marc under the guise of turning that door knob, or shooting it open provided it’s locked. Not that Zayn had any intention of fucking up someone’s property on behalf of Ross and Andrew. But the authority of a tempting threat is strong. “How long has he been here, Marc? Them, actually. That’s all I want to know.”

He’s shaky, but Zayn can see it’s an act. Marc is old school, doesn’t cower as easily if you don’t carry a heavy-weight name. It’s no secret that Zayn is adopted, and his relation to Simon can only get him so far. Sure, Marc might be terrified at pissing off Zayn’s boss, but he doesn’t owe Zayn anything.

Still, he exaggerates the shake of his hand and taps his chin. “A month. They came to me a month ago.”

Now that does take Zayn by surprise, because they’d only come to him a few weeks prior. It might have been a month, but Zayn doubts it. Which means Ross made arrangements for them to stay in town long before they came knocking on Zayn’s door. It had to be Ross, because Andrew isn’t as brazen.

Or as stupid.

Seeming deeply displeased, Zayn cocks his head before shaking it in disappointment. “That’s a real long time, Marc.”

Marc rushes to reassure Zayn that everything is alright. “They’ll be gone soon. Ross is out right now, getting some cash together.” Bingo. “They work in shifts, one out there and one here. It’s been like that, coming and going for days now.”

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose, keels over at the pain of being right hitting him in the gut. The only way to make money in their link of work is to scam or cheat or steal. That leaves Andrew and Ross with very limited options. Zayn has trouble seeing the La Fazia cousins getting away with theft from anyone in this town. Donovan Anahue runs the casinos and they haven’t had an arrangement with high-rollers since his daughter went to college. So no cheating and no stealing, not as Zayn can see.

That leaves scamming, which probably means selling.

And if Zayn were them—thank fucking god he’s not—he’d probably start with that bundle of coke they brought to MVP. Zayn intends to find out before he leaves this store, whether that includes shaking Marc down or leaving bullets in the small brain of his company present in the back.

“How do you think they would go about making that money, Mr. Enstrassa?” Zayn runs a test, plays dumb long enough to get his Intel and walk out the door—where customers are waiting, and will keep waiting until Zayn’s business is finished here. His fingers throb to reach for his gun, pop the lock on the door, and shake Andrew awake, demand the answers he came for from the slippery mess of a man.

“I, uh, I don’t know.” His voice is a tell of his real age, thick with smoke and years of long, yelled rants, which leaves Marc with a whispered tone and a scratchy aftertaste. Zayn almost shakes at the imprint it leaves behind, crawls over his skin. “I really don’t know, Zayn.”

All it takes is a sigh, and Louis is turning the knob again, this time with success. “Are you sure you don’t know, Marc?”

Nothing changes in lieu of Zayn’s repetitive questioning, so different tactics will be necessary, granted this is what he does. Intimidate. Scare. Prod.

Louis shares a look with Zayn and they both paint disappointment along their features—slacked jaws, hunched shoulders, long draws of breath. “Simon is generous, you know that.” Zayn drops a bomb of misrepresented unappreciation, shrugging his shoulders and trying to find the tick somewhere in Marc’s exterior. “I thought he’d been good to you.”

Marc’s quick to answer, almost jumpy in his reply. And Zayn knows it worked, knows he can bend the laws of Marc’s loyalty with the threat of Simon’s displeasure. “Yes! He’s been great, really, he has. We go way back, me and your, um, father.”

“How do you think Simon would feel about two little thugs selling on his side of town with no permission?”

Marc pretends to look surprised, but Zayn isn’t here to cast fingers. Simon can deal with the traitorous details of his own men on his own time. Ross and Andrew made it personal by making a pit stop at MVP, they’re Zayn’s business now. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty with colleagues of Simon’s past. Marc is shaking his head furiously, and maybe he’s telling the truth, he _didn’t_ know—Zayn doesn’t actually care. “I didn’t know anything about selling. Maybe they were working detail for a few jobs, I thought. Nothing serious.”

That’s not far-fetched, it’s in their talent range, standing around and looking the part. “Well, Marc, unless they’ve recently developed any marketable skills, they’re selling snow where we already have a goddamn rainmaker.”

“Lucas Donogio,” Marc nods, impressing Zayn with his catalogue of Simon’s employees. “I know. Lovely guy.”

He’s not that lovely, but Zayn doesn’t outwardly comment. Apparently kissing ass was a fad in Marc’s time. It’s not now. “Yeah, good man. And I don’t know about you, Marc, but I’d hate to see him on the streets because we didn’t have the decency to shut down some incoming competitors.”

“Look, Zayn, I’m sorry. Andrew is in the back.”

Zayn hammers his fist, rubs his hand across the cheap, painted wood to calm his nerves when Louis gives him a thumbs down. No threats. He’s not here to make threats. “I don’t give a shit about Andrew, he’s sleeping. Remember? Let him sleep.”

“I don’t know who’s buying from them, I don’t have a name.”

Zayn nods, he’s okay with that. Names to faces aren’t really all that important. “I don’t need names, I need an address.”

The sun is kind to Zayn now, allows him to easily see the doubt in Marc’s eyes, gives him a visual to go with the smell of panic sweat hitting Zayn’s nostrils at Mr. Enstrassa’s expense. He hopes it bodes well for Marc in kind, lets him see the unsafe flash in Zayn’s eyes without the trouble of squinting. The light shines over his the band of Zayn’s watch, maybe if Marc looks down far enough into Zayn’s open jacket he’ll see his gun, dark unlike the cream of his suit. Zayn hopes so, because he doesn’t fancy the idea of repeating himself.

“1127 South Wallace,” he spits with a dry throat.

Like a puppet with cut strings, Marc deflates. Zayn almost conjures pity for the man slumped before him. Just almost, but not quite. He’s never taken well to sabotage, no matter how innocent the parties caught in the crossfire claim to be. “Excellent.”

Marc nods, and his receding hairline alarms Zayn, moving in and out of the light. A distraction. “Glad I could help you.” He’s not, but luckily for Marc, Zayn’s always been fond of flattery. “You’ll tell Simon?”

And there’s the dropped line, the begging to be illuminated should Zayn do a report on today’s activities. “Definitely.”

Zayn thinks he might be sick.

Louis records the address, though Zayn doubts he’ll be forgetting it. Cautious, though, they are. Zayn looks around the store on his way out, keeps an eye on Marc through the angled mirrors that prevent stealing. He doesn’t like that look, the one he’s seeing when his back is turned. Bitterness doesn’t suit Marc, and an enemy doesn’t benefit Zayn.

Zayn swallows down the protests of his better judgment and makes his way to the counter again, pulls out his wallet slowly, as to stop any sudden movements of panic Mr. Enstrassa may make. “You know, Marc. Can I all you Marc? Great. Let me get your best Television set.” He looks around, does a mental documentation of the items on the shelves. “Maybe a stereo, too?”

There, that smile. A row missing a few teeth, still as tinted as when Zayn walked in, but still a full-lipped smile. That’s what Zayn is looking for. He’s not going to dangle his authority over a man who’s truly sorry, or one who has potential to be useful as the future unfolds. “Sure, Zayn. It’ll be on the house. Jus—”

Zayn waves a hand, and Louis scoffs in the background. Probably at the sight of Zayn purchasing used good. “Nonsense, Marc. Take this,” Zayn says, handing over a generous amount of cash, more than enough to cover a television and stereo. “And keep the change, yeah?”

More giddy smiles that Zayn takes in stride. “Thank you so much, do you have a truck to take this out on?”

“ _No,_ ” Louis says with unneeded snark from somewhere behind Zayn.

Zayn waves his middle finger behind him to silence Louis’ smart fucking mouth. “Hush, Louis. No, Marc. Do you deliver?”

“I do,” he nods.

“2133 Mockingbird, apartment 3H. Have it there before eight tomorrow morning?”

“Will do.”

Zayn’s business is done here, he easily walks out, does his best to appear friendly to the rush of customers he passes by. Most of them spectators, eager to know Zayn’s reasoning for being here. It’s no secret that Zayn doesn’t like to slum it. Louis shuffles behind him, walk still funny from that goddamn blade at his ankle.

“Zayn, isn’t that Liam’s apartment?” Louis is very slow for someone who claims to be a smart man.

“Yeah,” Zayn confirms, not looking anywhere but in front of him on his walk back to the car.

“He’s gonna kill you,” Louis remarks, unlocking the car and ushering Zayn into the passenger seat, today’s vehicle too small for Zayn to comfortably squeeze into the backseat. “You know he hates when you buy him shit.”

“Well,” he notes, finger in the air to make his very fine point. “I’d like to get laid and be able to watch Mad Men in the same place.”

Louis’ reply isn’t immediate, he has to jog around to his side of the vehicle and start the engine. “Bit cliché, isn’t it? You watching Mad Men.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and buckles himself into the seat. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I have a feeling I wouldn’t like it. I suggest you drive.”

“Will do, boss.”

“’S what I like to hear.”

**/////**

The beginning of the night is near when Zayn walks into MVP without hesitation, shakes hands with Paul on his way in and wipes his soles on the carpet before he starts a path on the unlined floor of the bar. The line outside is longer than it should be before opening, but Zayn isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he does an inventory of staff before he settles at the counter and beckons for a drink.

Eleanor’s there, elbow deep in the sink, suds resting on her arms as she splashes about, cups coming in and out of the water at a pace that Zayn has to give her props for. Zayn’s brandy is served in a glass that glass that smells too much of soap when he brings it to his lips. He doesn’t drink, just waves his hand at Eleanor and slides his full glass back to the bartender on the clock.

Zayn doesn’t notice until his fifth glance that his barkeep is attractive, but he keeps his comments to himself, bothers with Eleanor. “I thought I would come in and see you before opening,” starts Zayn, the bridge of his nose scrunching when Eleanor drowns yet another glass with dish soap. “Not that you’re not pleasant after eleven, but—well, you’re not.”

She snorts and the bartender to her left follows suit, silencing his chortle when Zayn raises an eyebrow and directs his hand at the glasses that need drying. Orders, Zayn likes them to be followed respectably.

“Oh, I’m getting visitation before you dive face first into the Friday night boobies?” Eleanor darkens her blouse with water when she rests a hand on her chest, concentrating on Zayn only long enough to circle her mouth in faux-shock. “Color me surprised.”

Zayn’s not sure why Eleanor is rinsing glasses, but she manages to do so with copious amounts of antibacterial product and a strong sense of sarcasm. Zayn adjusts his posture on his stool, rests his elbows on the end of the bar and taps his toes on the complying stool-feet. “You’re busy sassing me, but if you put anymore Pledge in those glasses with twenty minutes ‘til opening we’re gonna have Bobby Marin belching beer bubbles while we field 911 calls all night.”

“You’re being dramatic, shut up.”

Zayn shakes his head and grabs his stray glass as proof, passing it to Eleanor across the bar and wafting the smell into her nose. “I’m not.”

The speed at which the bottle slips from her hands is more amusing than it should be. “Shit.”

Zayn nods and halts the laughter of the bartender at her side. He’s charming, boy-ish smile and hair longer than Zayn would like. It works for him, as do the tattoos twining down the muscles of his arms. Arms that don’t lack appeal in an under-fitting shirt—one with buttons that should be paid overtime. But Zayn doesn’t pay his bartenders to look good—not entirely. “I see you laughing, but what I didn’t see you doing, was telling your boss lady to put down the fucking soap. That makes you just as guilty, and probably twice as stupid.”

The stutter-step before the words of Zayn’s employee brings a smile to his face. “I—shit, yeah. Sorry, boss.”

Zayn oversees all his employees—it keeps the rats away—but this one has managed to stay below Zayn’s radar. Which isn’t horrible, as Zayn is most likely to pick a pretty face out of a crowd and down their drinks rather than chat them up in a service line. Looks will only grant you so much access without talent. For the most part being appointed a position in this bar without hassling Zayn for attention is good, if said employees don’t have near-intimidating blonde hair and soft edges around blue eyes.

Interested enough, Zayn lowers his shoulder and nods to catch the man’s attention. “And who are you?”

He blushes and Zayn knows why, can recognize that look from all the bedroom eyes he’s been on the receiving end of. “You hired me, sir.”

Sir, Zayn likes being called sir. “Refresh my memory.”

Zayn hears the cue for his dancers to stat their last show rehearsal, but he can’t be bothered to look. No, this—this tall glass of intrigue in the shape of a jewel-eyed bartender—this holds more importance than a routine Zayn’s seen too many times to be interested. Zayn’s hip cocks and his face lifts into a slim-lipped smile that’s sufficed as bait a decent number of times.

“It’s J—”

“Oh, no.” Eleanor’s damp hands are pushing, wetting the shirt of Zayn’s prey _—bartender—_ and shoving him away from the reach of Zayn’s eyes. “No, no. I don’t think so. Go help Annie and Timothy set up drinks in the back.”

“But I don’t—”

“This club isn’t run on democratic values, I said go. So go.”

Zayn isn’t on board for this plan, would much rather he stayed here. Liam would be furious, always is when Zayn plays his hand at the field involving co-workers. Something about mal-practice or lawsuits or maybe both. Harassment, Zayn thinks Liam said something about that too. Not that Zayn’s ever made advances on anyone without consent, but the image of Liam’s sour face is enough to ensure Zayn smiles at the unnamed bar-runner until he’s behind the rope and out of sight.

Though, Eleanor usually has better judgment than Zayn anyhow, so he doesn’t make too much noise. But his stature does slip easily into place with his displeasure. Zayn can’t fault anyone from scurrying away from Eleanor’s whipping hands, even with Zayn’s insisting that they stay. She’s far more intimidating than he is, and Zayn has always preferred a smart lay.

“What the fuck was that?” Zayn wouldn’t say that he demands answers, but he does expect them.

“A disaster waiting to happen, that’s what.”

The maroon blazer atop Zayn’s arms and shoulders is already in need of a re-lengthening, but a dry-cleaning is not in the cards. So Eleanor’s hands—flinging water and soap and everything else incompatible with the Egyptian cotton of his overcoat—push him to shuck his jacket and roll his shirt sleeves past his elbow. The dull metal of a gun shines towards the back of his waist, which he won’t remove—the weight tethers him to the ground. But his fingers do search in assurance of the safety lock, and Zayn shifts it away from the water Eleanor’s slinging while she cleans.

He joins her behind the counter, stalking easily to the sink with the most valuable belongings on his person a safe distance from unauthorized cleaning agents. “I was just curious about his name. I don’t see that as dangerous.”

They fall into a rhythm that comprises of Eleanor soaking and Zayn rinsing, the dry rack full until Zayn runs a towel over the bottoms and dips his cloth-wrapped fingers inside to remove any excess water. He steps on the ends of Eleanor’s feet when her hands make moves too large to guarantee his cleanliness.

She glares at him. “I said disastrous, not dangerous.”

“Is there really a difference?” There’s a never-ending string of glasses—Zayn doesn’t know where the fuck she keeps pulling them from—and Zayn’s assigned himself the task of shelving the ones that have already reached a state of dry. As dry as they were going to get in the next ten minutes. “I asked his name, not his social security number.”

Eleanor lifts that one eyebrow, the one that usually dawns before something spills out of her mouth that Zayn won’t find himself pleased with. But it’s a tricky brow, Zayn knows. Eleanor’s capable of using it for many different purposes, so he keeps shelving. “You want to know his name?”

Zayn’s sigh is heavy with petulant irritation. “Are you fucking deaf?”

Her lips are pursed, but her hands don’t stop moving, long arms lost in gloves that are thick and rubber and brightly colored yellow. Eleanor does this thing with her lips, Zayn almost would call it a smirk, and she cocks her head too, pursing her lips before giving Zayn his answer. “Hickey number five.”

Zayn’s fingers fumble enough to cause a small collision of glasses that draws her attention to him. She shrugs and Zayn coughs to clear the loose knot in his throat. “Excuse me?”

“Your sweet, innocent, annoyingly law-abiding toy of a boy—” She frowns and they both know that some form of phrasing got caught somewhere before it had the chance to take shape on her lips. Zayn doesn’t even know if that was a real sentence. She makes material gestures, waving her hands before giving up and sighing more sarcastically than Zayn appreciates. “Liam’s neck hickeys? One through four are yours, very eloquent, might I add. And number five is his. Jace’s. His name is Jace.”

Zayn’s still drawn in confusion, he doesn’t follow. His brain, it’s not working right. “Are you going to make actual points, dumbass? Or are you just going to keep putting words together and hope that they make sense?”

“Jace blows Liam in between shifts, dumbass.” He hates that she cackles at whatever look she finds on his face when she glances to her left. Because that means it mustn’t be good. “Has since he got here. I know you two aren’t opposed to sharing each other, but I don’t think that extends to sharing _with_ each other.”

Not jealous, Zayn doesn’t wear envy around like a topcoat. Green is not his color, it doesn’t suit him. Never has. Zayn has what he wants, knows that what is his belongs to him and him only. Clothes, shoes, guns, men, cars. Liam. Eleanor lands a consoling pat on Zayn’s back that he doesn’t find himself wanting or needing. Zayn shrugs her off, getting back to his tasks. “Cool, whatever.”

It’s not supposed to sound like that, but it does. Like what, Zayn can’t even say, but it’s not anything he’s comfortable with, nothing he likes. The corner of Eleanor’s elbow wedges briefly into Zayn’s side. “Unhinge your jaw, killer. I’m sure you have your fair-share of help blows.”

“Help-blows?” And at this point, Zayn doesn’t know why he bothers to question any means of conversation Eleanor manages to come up with. “What the fuck are those?”

“Sucker-jobs from the help?” She speaks with a tone of distain, like it should be obvious to Zayn what she’s talking about. The familiarity of her snark helps Zayn bite back the bile scratching at the top of his throat. She’s done washing, now skirting around Zayn with a damp shirt and no other care in the world. “The girls in the back. Stacey, from the night shift? The bartender, Drew? The girl _and_ the guy. Lu—”

His fingers ram into her side, in the most sensitive spot below her ribs. “I get it, dick.”

Hands are risen in apology—one Zayn knows isn’t genuine in the least—but Zayn’s just glad she’s removed her gloves and started taking their time window into account, whisking this way and that to stock glasses before Paul opened the doors to their first wave of Friday night patrons. The real drinkers.

“I’m just saying, there’s no need for the sour face, jealousy isn’t cut out for people who look like you.”

Zayn straightens from where he’s bent over, aligning shot glasses and separating them from full tumblers. Eleanor isn’t looking at him when he asks, “People who look like me?”

Her scoffing isn’t necessary, but Zayn’s never known her to do something based solely on merit. “Let’s not do the whole song and dance where we pretend you’re not vain.”

Zayn should expect the brash reality of Eleanor’s words—not the comment towards his vanity, of course, but her remarks about Zayn’s habits of sharing—but being put in his place he still leaves a bitter twang of at the end of his tongue. “Well, alright then.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the minutes that pass, but Zayn doesn’t mind. Works better in silence, he does. And when Paul opens the club, Zayn’s forgotten all about Jace and Liam and Eleanor for the time being. Lost them somewhere between sweeping the post and lining glasses in succession.

He likes it better that way, would rather deal with the order of inanimate objects than try to make heads or tails of the cricket-y jitters sitting at the base of his spine regarding things with faces and personalities and lips that give hickeys to people Zayn loves.

**/////**

The beginning of the night brings in more than the regular eve of most nights. And as much as Zayn hates playing bartender—it means no visible firearm with the twisting and turning he has to do in plain sight—he’s stuck with Eleanor for the first handful of hours after Paul swings the front doors wipe open, the cover charge waived for the first fifty or so customers.

Unfortunately for Zayn, Manny and Trudy, two of their bar-tap regulars, are getting tired of the half-assed rum and coke Zayn insists on serving. Even though he promises it’s better than anything else he’d make.

He moves around Eleanor for a Pink Drink. He’d originally thought it was meant as a slur—a gay drink—but Trudy insists its just liquor that’s tinted a light red. Pink at the lightest. He racks their inventory until he finds something that looks colored enough to most likely taste good.

“I thought we paid people to do this shit?” Eleanor’s got this mic clipped to the end of her collar, it looks fucking stupid and it makes whoever’s talking into it look twice as dumb. She’s busy barking orders literally down her shirt while Zayn passes her, finding a trimmer to pour three fingers of the requested alcohol before passing the order into Trudy’s shaky hands. “I’m not a fucking bartender. I don’t even pour my own goddamn drinks.”

“We do have bartenders, pretty boy.” Eleanor says in passing, balancing a drink in each hand to the right end of the bar, letting her jab sink in form a distance. Once her hands are empty she points in the direction of the diner and dancing stages. “But those lovely people are tending to the assholes you bring in, because they tip more than fivers and they want specific drinks.”

Eleanor yells again, Zayn doesn’t think it has anything to do with the noise around her—almost deafening, the mix of club and dance music, the both of them very close to fiving Zayn a headache—but more to do with the widely know fact that she likes to yell. Zayn grabs her attention again when some dick-wad slams his glass on the bar and demands a refill—Zayn almost jumps across the fucking counter.

Later he’ll refuse the notion that he felt for the gun that was no longer at the back of his jeans. But instead of shooting this guy, Zayn tells him exactly what he can go with his demands, or he tries. “You can suck my—”

Eleanor stops Zayn with a hand, one he only reveres because she’s a lot smarter about customer service than he is. She snaps her free hand in the angry red face of Zayn’s customer. “Hey, fuck-face, you ever learn how to say please? You can ask for a refill or my pretty friend here can throw you out on your ass.”

Well, maybe she’s not that much smarter.

A haze of flashing lights blinds Zayn to the time until he pours his last shot and reaches for the next glass and finds an empty under-shelf. He roots around more, but only comes in contact with a magazine and the gun it belongs in. Eleanor’s stash of blow catches his eye, but yelling at her isn’t going to produce glasses out of the tense atmosphere he would create. Zayn looks up and over, catches hosts and bar-keeps in the VP section and doesn’t envy them in the least. The amount of people crowded around the ropes—watching Zayn’s dancers from afar—more than doubles the bodies dancing on the floor and hovering near Zayn’s station.

“Hey, El,” Zayn calls, and Eleanor looks up but keeps her hand on the counter, cleaning the never-ending run of rum that’s spilled onto the blacktop. Zayn takes note of Lucille running through the crowds—Zayn’s main stage bartender—and he sees this as their only chance for a break. “Call Luce over here, so one of us can get out of here.”

Eleanor shakes her head no, hair falling from the wrap she’s set it in. “No fucking way. I can’t work a shift with Lucy. She pops her gum in bubbles. We’re on opposite ends of the building for a reason.”

“Why does she work here if you don’t like her?” It’s not a bad question. Eleanor’s tolerance is the reason this place is run the way it is, tight with no mistakes. “Fire her, if you want. I don’t give a shit.”

“If you can find a busty red-head who can make a tray of martinis in less than two minutes, then sure.” The rush of the night is over, but Zayn has spent enough time in his own club to know that it will resurge soon. Eleanor finishes making her final drink and pats Zayn on the head. “If you can do all that, I’ll get rid of her first thing in the morning.”

The resurgence of cups is uncanny, but Zayn welcomes it, gathers them fast enough to start making new drinks in next ten minutes, but slow enough to maintain the integrity of his attire. “No need to be a smart ass. Call Jace, then. He’s a beginner. Hasn’t even been here long enough for me to know his name. I know he doesn’t have enough credit to work the VP rooms.”

She’s shaking her head again—which is becoming quite the annoyance—before Zayn’s even done with his proposition. The glasses clink into the sink and Zayn runs the water while Eleanor talks, fingers up to hold off any incoming requests. “I don’t think so, Zayn. Leave him alone. He’s cute and nice and I’m not gonna let you scare him away.” Zayn moves away from her, sensing a swat that he doesn’t want to inherit with her Skinny Girl stained fingers. He fucking saw that spill, thank you. “Take your jealous boyfriend shit up with Liam.”

Zayn’s over it, he thinks. Really, maybe. He can deal with whatever is stewing at the bottom of his stomach later. He’s a professional first, and right now he really wants a break from Eleanor’s screaming and glaring; her in fucking general. Zayn cuts off the running water with a turn of his wrist and fingers underneath the open bar until he finds a dry towel. “I’m not going to maul him, Eleanor, I need to take a break.”

“Always the lazy one.”

Zayn huffs at her while he dries glasses. “Or you can take a break. I just need to separate from your fucking aura for like, twenty minutes.”

“Whatever,” she sneers defensively, moving farther away from him.

Eleanor’s shoulders sag, and immediately Zayn wishes he wouldn’t have been so harsh. It’s rare, the need to apologize fizzing at the surface of his bones, but it’s not non-existent. The lights go out for a second, but Zayn’s aware of the routine that calls for complete darkness in the building, and everyone around them seems to enjoy the element of entertainment when the black lights come on in place of the regular lighting. Of course the yellow bulbs above both bars stay the same, but that’s a safety issue that Zayn’s not willing to compromise.

Flashes of girls and guys who look enough like Liam for Zayn to turn his head pass him. Zayn thinks about walking away from the bar without comment, he knows Eleanor wouldn’t stop him, but he stays where he is, dries cups and glasses and empties old bottles until the line of waiting patrons gets too long for him to be comfortable with.

Recognizing the new crowd herself, Eleanor huffs, pointing a serious finger toward Zayn. “If I call Jace up here, you better not get piss on my clean glasses when the both of you take your Johnson’s out.”

He curls his lip at her, because while her point is valid, that’s still fucking gross. “So crude.”

Zayn takes it for what it is, a white flag. She pages Jace with that dumb mic and walks the small distance to rinse her hands again. Zayn smiles and gives Manny a free shot of Maker’s Mark due to his lift in spirit. Eleanor insists that Manny fork over some cash, but Zayn refuses his cash, smiling when the older gentleman takes Trudy by the hand and leads her out the door before the activities of the club bring in a crowd they’re not accustomed to.

He looks after then, longs for the hand-fasting and shared pecks between the two of them. Happiness in its most sincere form. It calls to Zayn, he wants that. He could have that. That could be Zayn’s.

“Tell your little friends that they better be here Thursday afternoon if they want a paycheck at the end of the month. Week, whatever.” The break in commotion after they’ve served everyone who was gracious enough to stand around and wait allows Zayn a chance to wipe over the new messes. Boy, how he doesn’t miss the actual labor that comes with running an establishment. “I need all hands on deck that day for aesthetic purposes.”

Zayn’s irritation flares again, not at Eleanor but the situation at hand. “Is the guy down at the Revenue Service giving you shit again?”

“Well, Zayn, it’s hard to keep telling them that I have close to fifty bar-keeps on my payroll when none of them are ever here when he happens to stop by.”

Zayn’s knuckles crack under the pressure of his tight fist and a hand finds it way to his hair, the first comb-through of the night. Which Zayn was avoiding in order to preserve his anxiety for a more significant matter. “Shit, okay.”

This time Eleanor’s consoling hands are welcome, the pat doing nothing to calm Zayn’s nerves but the effort traveling great lengths regardless of the efficiency. “Payroll is a bitch, trust me, I know.”

Zayn knows that well enough, he nods. “It’s the price of doing business, kiddo.”

Eleanor loses her hair-wrap in favor of letting her small curls fall around her shoulders. The visual of her relaxation brings a smile to Zayn’s face, even if he knows she’s leaving the bar to go whip another station into better shape. Zayn opens his arms as she passes, their hug short but proficient. Zayn whispers his words into her hair. “I’ll see you later tonight when we lock up. Liam should be here around one, Simon’s got him running inventory down in Leeds.”

She looks up at him, taken aback. “You told Pops about Ross and Andrew?”

Zayn fills up shot-glasses of bourbon and passes them to anyone occupying a stool. “Nope, got a lunch with him Monday, thought I’d do it then. Gonna wait and let them dig up a clientele before I shut ‘em down.”

Eleanor looks impressed and Zayn wonders if he should be offended at her apparent lack of faith in his ability to run his business. “The good old loyalty test, eh?”

“You got it.”

Jace materializes and Zayn laughs. If anyone asked him why, he would be left without speech, but he laughs. Laughs until the tickle at the back of his throat is gone, along with the irritation. Zayn has so much shit to deal with—bigger fish to fry, if you will—that he doesn’t know why Jace would resurrect anything other than a passing nod, even after the discovery of his actions in the dark with his Liam.

 _Zayn’s_ Liam.

Jace is left puzzled and Eleanor is exasperated, if the roll of her eyes is any sort of indication. Zayn’s never been a welcome lover to covetousness, and he doesn’t see why he should stir up the beginnings of that relationship now.

That doesn’t stop Zayn from extending an intimidating pat to Jace’s shoulder. “Hey, Jace.” Zayn smiles at the discomfort evident in the frown of Jace’s lips. “I think we should talk.”

Eleanor scolds Zayn with a firm hand on her way out. “Remember what I said, Zayn, no dirty Johnson’s.”

**/////**

Liam rolls over, takes Zayn with him—keeps them connected by heart and chest and sweat. Zayn only follows because he’d rather lay on Liam than be the one trying to breathe under his weight. Light is all Zayn sees when he looks down. Its radiance, something Zayn will only ever understand when he’s looking down at the curve of Liam’s lazy smile and feeling the warmth that crawls up his spine in the form of Liam’s hands.

The barely there glow of Liam’s shitty lamp gives Zayn a headache, makes his thoughts thrum a little harder on his brain when coupled with the lovey-dovey bullshit tightening he gets in his chest when Liam stretches his limbs all kitten like. When he looks at Zayn like he’s dangling the world at the tips of his fingers.

And it hurts because it’s not fair that Liam holds Zayn so high in that regard, after all these years. Zayn’s a terrible person—likes strippers and dick up and carving the life out of people. He does a lot of things that are only going to send him straight to hell. It’s hard to imagine someone with such good qualities—someone so fucking pure and bright-eyed—would think he’s some great human being.

But those are thoughts for days when Zayn is closer to ringing the doorbell of the dark horseman himself.

Zayn stretches his arm out for a cig, lets his teeth pinch into his lips when he laughs—fucking almost falls off the bed, sheets and all. Only stays on the mattress with the firm anchors of Liam’s hands at his hips. “Shit,” he laughs. “Shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna die.”

“Watch your freaking mouth,” Liam whispers, gasps when Zayn’s elbow collides with his stomach. He crawls back over Liam, rights himself long enough to spark his lighter and light the end of his fag on the inhale before he’s laying down again, sprawled across the long, pale, and hair-sprinkled skin of Liam’s body. Zayn weaves to miss a slapping hand, barely misses burning Liam’s nipple, or his own for that damn matter. “You know I hate when you cuss. And when you smoke.”

“Would you cut that out? I could’ve hurt the both of us.”

Liam tries Zayn’s patience, uses his finger to bob Zayn’s nose. Zayn doesn’t get his nose bobbed, doesn’t let things like that happen outside this room—their room. Zayn lets out an unusual cough on the exhale, because Liam is fucking distracting. He makes a few swats of his own with his freed hand. “And leave my language out of this. I’m a grown man, I can say whatever the fu—”

Fingerprints are etched into his skin, marks where Liam suddenly places his hand, gripping Zayn’s chin and pulling his face closer, his own head craning up to meet Zayn. It’s a mess of smoke in eyes and misplaced ashes on white linens. But Zayn craves the pain, all but crawls forward when Liam jerks him harshly, smoke falling from Zayn’s mouth and around Liam’s. “What did I just fucking tell you?”

The anger and aggravation makes Zayn’s cock twitch against the sheets. It’s crazy, how Liam getting mad can make leave Zayn breathless—excited. “Shut up and be lazy with me.”

As much as Zayn wants to go again, suck down nicotine and try to bite down moans while Liam marks him up again, makes proper use of the next forty minutes they have—his head hurts. Partially from the shit-storm his brain develops into when he’s within kissing distance of Liam’s face. Touching distance of his hands. Sappy shit like that. Their mouths meet in a crash of over-eager lips and clashing teeth, Zayn feels the disgust rolling off of Liam in waves when his tongue breaches Zayn’s mouth and he tastes the smoke on his teeth and cheeks and lips.

Liam pulls him away as quickly as he’d pulled him in, tugging the hair at Zayn’s scalp and sighing when Zayn takes a hit as soon as his lips are free of Liam’s own. He rubs his hands up Zayn’s arm, smoothing over chill bumps along his skin, letting his fingertips drag, as if Zayn needs another reason to shake in Liam’s presence.

Liam leans forward to kiss Zayn’s forehead, lets them both exist in the same time and place for a while, undisturbed. Zayn smoking, and Liam curling up his lips at the tinted air washing over his face. It’s dingy and dark and Zayn starts to feel the sweat cool into his skin over time. He revels in it in all, wraps himself in Liam and thick air and the softness of his dick lying between his body and the dirt-filmed sheets.

He throws the remnants of his cigarette, knowing it’ll burn out eventually against the concrete of Liam’s floor. Liam’s breathing captures Zayn’s attention, trains his eyes against the rise and fall of Liam’s chest. It shouldn’t be so fucking intriguing—the way he’s breathing, for Christ’s sake.

The trail of Liam’s hair is a pathway for Zayn’s fingers, twisting and tickling, giggling—laughing very manly—when he pinches at Liam’s nipple, earning himself a swat on the bum and a yelp. Liam lulls Zayn into a caress of deep, dark velvet when he speaks. “Don’t go starting something you know we don’t have time to finish.”

“You comin’ quick has never been a problem before,” Zayn replies, mouth coming around the soft pebbled pink skin of Liam’s nipple, sucking him in and teething his nub. Stutters erupt above him and Zayn slides off with a pop, licking around his mouth just for show. Just because Liam’s breathing a bit heavier than he was five seconds ago. Fuck, he’s getting hard just _thinking_ about Liam panting. But Zayn doesn’t have any time for foreplay. He sits up, grabs for another cigarette. “I don’t have to go pick up Louis and his piss boys for that vault job for another hour. And you ain’t gotta be at—whatever the hell you’ve gotta be at—until five, that gives us more than enough time for you to jerk me off.”

Liam stays lying down, and as much as he’s wrinkling his nose and turning his head when Zayn bends down to share the taste of his mouth, he holds two fingers out for a cigarette. Fucking hypocrite. He doesn’t cough on the inhale but he does hinge his jaw a bit, and fuck all if that doesn’t turn Zayn on a little bit.

“You can jerk yourself off, Christ.” He reciprocates the smoke that Zayn had blown in his eyes earlier, smiles as he does it—sits up too, takes Zayn’s fag with him. “You got hands, don’t you?”

Zayn follows him, throws a leg over Liam’s lap and swivels himself down onto his crotch. Liam holds his resolve—good for him—doesn’t even flinch. “Don’t be a prick, yeah? One more round before—”

“Before what,” Liam threatens, a cigarette in each hand, fucking jaw jutted out to make Zayn crazy in more than one way. He lifts a sarcastic brow at Zayn. “Before you go back home to the old Missus?”

Zayn takes his cigarette back then, jerks it from Liam’s fingers, not caring when the embers fall around them. Smiles when Liam winces, the asshole. He tosses Liam’s away while he’s at it, bc he fucking can. “Screw you, you know I’m with her because Simon wants to keep an eye on the Edwards’. Don’t get pissy with me for following the boss’ orders.”

“The hell do your eyes have to do with your dick?”

Zayn doesn’t need this. Liam is his, one and only. Yeah, he has needs that Liam isn’t always down for filling. And he has a girl in his house—Simon’s house—so what if he lets her suck him off on occasion? It’s nothing serious, never is. It’s not like he and Liam are shouting from the rooftops that yeah, they might love each other or some shit. Zayn doesn’t do this feelings crap and neither does Liam. So fuck him and his holier-than-thou bullshit.

“I don’t have to put up with your temper tantrums,” he says, moving back and leaving Liam and his sad and sorrowful eyes behind. “You don’t see me whining and moaning when you have Jace Michelson bent over the bar every Thursday night. So yeah, I’ll jerk myself off and you can, too. Dick.”

Liam’s fingers wrapped tightly around Zayn’s wrist don’t make Zayn go weak in the knees like they should. Just pisses him off more. “I would still be bending him over if you hadn’t told the guy you’d cut all his fingers off if he touched me again.”

Liam doesn’t speak at Zayn with anger in his voice, sounds amused, and Zayn think that annoys him even more. He’s an asshole, though. And Zayn catches himself smiling at the traces of memories from two weeks ago, Jace’s face pressed against the clean glass window, leaving streaks of tears and sweat behind. _Pussy._ Zayn didn’t even have to take out his gun to get his point across, it was perfect.

Of course he can’t tell Liam that. Can’t handle all the implications he’ll throw Zayn’s way if he admits to scaring away Liam’s other exploits. “I did nothing of the sort.”

But Zayn’s always been a shit liar where Liam is involved. He can worm his way around the truth in any other situation, but with Liam pressing bruising fingers into his wrist and lifting up the corners of his mouth, smug as a motherfucker and naked as the day he was born—Zayn can’t keep his face straight long enough to get Liam off his case. “You did.”

Still doesn’t change anything, Zayn’s not interested in coming off like a green-eyed prick. “No, I fucking didn’t.”

Liam doesn’t let go. “Oh, that’s _adorable._ ” And Zayn doesn’t want him to, either.

Liam leads them back down to the bed, resting against the headboard again, hands kneading Zayn’s ass while Zayn launches an assault on the skin of Liam’s neck, sucking and biting and licking. “Shut up, will you? God, so fucking—”

Liam slaps him, doesn’t bother with making it gentle on his bum, rubs it until its sore afterwards and settles his hands on Zayn’s hips. “What did I tell you about the language? _Shit—there._ ”

“Look who’s cussing now, eh?”

“Harder,” he demands. And who is Zayn to deny him his request? He’s not sure if Liam wants him to bite harder or press his ass back into Liam’s dick. Zayn jerks his hips when Liam twitches underneath him. “We really don’t have time, though,” Liam says into the air, tune changing but hands still slithering around Zayn’s skin. “And I’m sacked already. It’s easy for you to want to go again when you don’t have to do all the work.”

Zayn aims for Liam’s lips this time, takes that fat fucking pout and swallows down all of Liam’s bitching. He’s careful not to singe Liam with the cigarette still in his fingers, contemplates lighting another one while Liam’s tongue strokes his own, velvet against velvet, licking Zayn from the inside out.

He pushes himself away from Liam, laughs along his cheek when his cherry ash barely misses Liam’s left shoulder. “I’m not a lazy screw, asshole. I’ll ride you or summat, make you forget you last name and all that fancy shi—stuff. Fancy stuff.”

“That’s a lie,” Liam says into Zayn’s collarbone, no qualms about reaching around and prodding around at Zayn’s entrance, slipping inside and twisting, being mighty coy for someone who doesn’t want to go another round. “You don’t like riding, never have. Always saying it makes you feel—so tight, _shit,_ Zayn, you’re tight. The hell is that possible? _Dammit._ You always say it makes you feel like a girl.”

“Yeah, well. Getting your dick ridden is better when someone’s tits are bouncing around.”

Liam snorts into Zayn’s neck, teeth pricking the surface of his skin—just a tease, but enough to make Zayn drop another good goddamn cigarette in shock. “That’s sexist as shit.”

Zayn leans back, bolts back into Liam’s fingers, rides those first, whines when Liam reaches for lube to stretch him more, being difficult because there’s no tension, Zayn’s still open from moments ago. Zayn’s hands make an excellent frame around Liam’s jaw. He looks him in the eye and accepts the cigarette Liam retrieved when he sought out the lube. Liam lights him up with one hand and buries his fingers inside Zayn with the other. Zayn doesn’t take his eyes off Liam, lets his lungs fill and fingers the stick, bringing his hands back to Liam’s face, the danger in burning Liam’s ear right off making him swallow a moan.

“You want this or not?” It’s not Zayn’s favorite position at all—he hates the vulnerability. But this is Liam and if he’s going to open himself up for anyone to see, it’s gonna be him. He’s exposed, left to judge because all Zayn can do is move his hips up and down. Squeeze himself around Liam’s dick while Liam watches, hands around Zayn’s waist and his own cock. But Liam loves it, likes to follow the pattern of Zayn’s blush with his fingers, twist his nipple and kiss his lips. It’s not half-bad, never is with Liam. “Let me do this for you? I’m not gonna beg.”

“Come here, baby.” They share kisses and heavy air, smoke too, while Liam twists his fingers inside Zayn, makes him pant and whine into his mouth. “Yeah, that’s it. Love you like this. Harder, babe. Shit.”

Zayn does as he’s told, brings himself back down to earth with every thrust, bobs his hole on Liam’s digits, and whimpers when his weeping dick travels across Liam’s belly. So close, he is. Wants Liam inside him so he can feel more. Liam looks up and ejects his fingers, holds out a wet and messy hand to take Zayn’s cigarette, inhaling and letting Zayn’s tongue lick around his fingers. Moaning, because that’s _them_ that he’s tasting.

“You look fucking hot like that, you know it?” Zayn kisses Liam’s fingers, open mouthed, licking the ends of his fingers lightly, sparsely, never taking his eyes away from the pools of russet want in Liam’s eyes. Zayn gets high on the next drag Liam takes, loves how reckless he looks. “You should smoke more often, gets me hard.”

Liam nods, smiling, taking his fingers away from Zayn’s lips, instead traveling them up his trembling thighs. And that right there is the reason Zayn doesn’t do this, doesn’t like the strain of his muscles, enjoys it in the moment but not the next morning when he’s got to get up and go hassle a couple of goons with an ache in his thighs. Liam’s grinning though, cupping Zayn’s balls, fingering his taint and then sliding his fingertips under the spine of Zayn’s cock.

He uses his other hand to turn Zayn’s smoke around, letting him have a drag before taking it away and making them more comfortable against the headboard. “Get to it, then.”

Liam’s mouth goes all slack, cocky son of a bitch practically purrs around that fucking cigarette when Zayn reaches around to find his cock, line it up and sink down, not being subtle or shy about it. Because if he’s doing this, he’s going to do it right. The flared head of Liam’s cock burns when Zayn rises up long enough to let the tip play around the inside ring of him. But the ache is worth it with Liam’s pretty eyes flickering open and closed, fag hanging from his lip as his body moves with Zayn’s.

“This good enough for you, hmm?” Zayn slides his hands up to Liam’s neck, recites hums and whimpers as he catalogs each individual hair across Liam’s chin, counts the lashes blinking against his cheeks. He rises to his knees and sits back down on Liam’s cock, feels it fucking fatten inside him, lets the throb sync with his pulse—that’s how connected they are, how they’ve always been. The sweat down the hollow of Liam’s throat is attention-grabbing, beautiful in its descent. Zayn plucks the fag from Liam’s lips, takes a drag himself, balancing himself as he swivels his hips, encourages the help of Liam’s suddenly free hands. “You bitch so much, Liam. _God,_ dick is so— _Fuck,_ you bitch a lot. That’s all you ever do.”

“’S cause I want the best for you,” Zayn’s balls slap against Liam’s stomach, the only sound in the room sans for the squelch of Zayn’s hole swallowing Liam’s cock, skin on skin, sweat on sweat. Zayn flicks his ashes, puts the cigarette back at Liam’s lips, ‘cause that visual is better than a fast hand around his dick any day. “I want you to be the best you can be. Love you.”

Zayn doesn’t mean to turn this into one of those moments, no. He didn’t like how stretched it made him feel, like his skin was going to rip open and Liam was going to get a front row seat to the ticking of his heart. He keens and thrusts erratically when Liam gets a hold on his dick, trades out Zayn’s cigarette to crane his neck and take Zayn’s nipple into his mouth, working him from all angles.

And that’s not fucking fair—it isn’t. That Liam gets to say how he feels and doesn’t even expect for Zayn to say anything in return, so he distracts him with a hand to his prick and teeth to his chest. Might as well use those to rip Zayn’s fucking heart out while he’s down there. He clenches around Liam’s dick in retaliation, makes him scream because Zayn knows what the hell he’s doing. Who he’s doing, knows what Liam likes.

“I love you, too, alright?” Zayn sinks down against him, has trouble deciding whether to arch up into Liam’s mouth or arch back onto his dick. He throws the cigarette somewhere on the floor, doesn’t fucking care what it lands on, only wants to drag himself closer to Liam, rest his forehead against the side of Liam’s face as he continues to suck and Zayn keeps fucking riding. “I love you, too.”

“I know that,” he says. And yeah, he better know that. If Liam hasn’t heard anything that Zayn has said, he hopes those words have sunk in. “I know you do, Zayn.”

The pleasure sits at the bottom of his spine, Zayn can feel it course through his body. Liam’s hands leave his dick, burn themselves into Zayn’s hips and guide him up and down, leaning back so Zayn can get a look at his wet face, swollen lips and shiny chin. Liam’s a mess. “Then let me take care of you. It’s my job—Liam, babe. Babe, babe. _Babe._ Let me take care of you.”

He can barely talk with Liam slamming home inside him, leaving lazy by the wayside and fucking up into Zayn’s with no abandon, marking his waist with his hands and Zayn’s soul with his eyes. “Look at me. Take it, baby. So fucking good, my _god._ I love you—look at me.”

Zayn does, can barely keep his eyes from falling shut, cock bobbing up and down, hands scraping his shoulders. Liam jolts Zayn in his lap, makes him whine and hiss at the pain, pant at the pleasure that comes in its wake. “Look at me, dammit.” Zayn doesn’t even notice Liam’s hand leaving his side until he’s slipping a finger in next to his dick, making Zayn arch until he’s damn near close to a back snap. “You’ve taken care of me, okay? I’m taken care of. Let me return the favor.”

He doesn’t need to confirm Liam’s words with ones of his own, promises with a leak of his dick across Liam’s stomach, teeth biting into the flesh of his lip as he comes in ribbons, no warning because Liam doesn’t need one, knows Zayn’s body better than he knows his own. “I love you so fucking much,” he says, mumbles against Liam’s neck when he can get close enough, lets him cradle Zayn in his arms, pumping until he comes inside Zayn, hot and white and electric. “I love you. Know that.”

Sometimes Zayn is the one who needs to be held, wrapped in arms and told that everything is going to be okay, even if it’s a bullshit lie. Liam does that, lays Zayn down and bypasses the cliché shit, teasing him with a kiss of Liam’s dick at the ring of his asshole, making him shake after Liam’s already pulled out. Makes an ass out of himself as he buries the end of his cock in Zayn’s hole, getting himself wet and slippery, pouting when Zayn pushes him away in favor of searching out his boxers on the floor to put them on.

That’s it for them, for tonight. It was sex, but more. More is all Zayn can give Liam right now, nothing beyond that. Just that little bit of extra, and he’s leaving Liam lying in bed and sliding his boxers over his hips.

After that comes his trousers, fucking wrinkled, which is a problem. Zayn shrugs his shirt on next, doesn’t bother with the buttons or the tie. He’ll stop by his place to shower and change. He picks up his smokes and leans down to kiss Liam, a peck and flick to his over-sensitive dick, because payback is a cunt. Zayn dismisses his missing shoes, doesn’t care, just doesn’t want to be late for this dumb-ass meeting.

Papers catch his eye, ones with names and dates and information that’s just there—in the open like Liam doesn’t give a shit who sees it. But he should, because it makes Zayn frown. He doesn’t pick them up—respecting Liam’s privacy as much as he can without rolling over like a pussy—just nods at them while he knows he has Liam’s attention.

“The fuck is that?” Zayn points and he knows Liam’s a slob, has shit all over this apartment that he couldn’t tell you heads or tails about. A television set included, thank you Marc fucking Enstrassa. But Liam knows what Zayn’s pointing to, the stack that seems endless, that Zayn would fucking love to dive into, but doesn’t have the time for. Information is the best weapon, and Zayn wants to know what weapon Liam is loading. “You still parent hunting? How fucking long does it take to look up a death certificate?”

Zayn’s harsh because he doesn’t understand. Also, he’s aware of his foul mouth snagging Liam’s’ attention long enough to piss him off and answer Zayn’s questions at the same time. Liam sits up, just on his elbows and Zayn doesn’t even let his eyes roam over his torso or his hips or that stupid fucking mouth. Just his eyes. Zayn can see the truth there.

Or he should.

“Don’t talk about them like that, okay? My parents were good people, Zayn.” He rubs his lip, then glides his tongue across his bottom one. It’s a nervous tick, a habit that Zayn’s picked up on occasion. The clock ticks inside Zayn’s head, tick tick. He’s going to be late. Simon’s been a real dick lately, though. So he’ll wait, linger around for an explanation as long as Liam is handing them out. “Dad was a carpenter. Not a very good one, mind you. But he paid my mum’s bills. And her bail.”

“Her bail?” Zayn laughs, because the events are funny. Amusing. Laughable. “Don’t tell me your mum was a jailbird?”

It beaks his heart, how proud Liam looks. Proud of people that he never got to know. A set of parents that are in the ground. Not gone or lost, dead. Never coming back. His smile is infectious, but Zayn only gives him a grin, doesn’t want him to think this is okay. It’s not okay, none of this is okay.

“She was, Zayn. I really do think you would have liked her. Assault charges, a few substance things. It’s crazy, really.” There’s something hollow there, like Liam knows what Zayn is thinking—that this was a lost cause. Something that doesn’t bring nearly enough joy or contentment to balance out the misery. Zayn stops himself from striding to the mattress. He really is going to be late. “I think she had a good life. There—I.” Liam just can’t seem to find the words he’s looking for, and Zayn. Zayn doesn’t like the vulnerability in the air, how it lingers from before. “I just wish I was more like her.”

Zayn openly scoffs at that. It’s bullshit. Liam doesn’t look hurt, is accustomed to Zayn’s callous attitude to any feeling that goes beyond his first layer of skin. Zayn needs to writhe to feel pain, not cry. But Liam misjudges him now, though. Zayn’s not laughing to cause him discomfort, only wants to bring him assurance.

Assurance that Liam’s more than perfect just the way he is, as fucking lame as that sounds. Zayn shifts on the balls of his feet, teethes the ends of his mouth and waves his hands to erase the hurt in Liam’s eyes. “Fuck, I’m an asshole.”

“No shit.”

He really does wish he could walk over there now, just lie down for a moment. But Zayn knows he wouldn’t get up, not in time. Never enough time. Liam looks at him sometimes, like he holds Zayn responsible for hanging the moon, placing the stars across the sky. Zayn hopes that one day, he might be half the man Liam believes him to be.

“She would be proud of who you are, is what I’m trying to say.” It comes out sloppy, not worded well. But his point is there, and Liam’s grinning. A private one that means Zayn will be getting rewarded later in spades. A grin that spikes really fucking good things in Zayn’s stomach. Tingles that he will never admit to having aloud. “Don’t look at me like that— _shut up_.”

Zayn’s stricken thoughts must have traveled to his face, and Liam is laughing. Hand on his stomach, his very nice stomach—Zayn might add—hunched in his sheets. Which are shitty and practically see-through. Very unfair. “No,” he manages to say between bouts of amusement at Zayn’s expense. “I’m glad you can see who I really am, Zayn. Really, I’m touched.”

“Fuck you, I’m leaving.”

“Okay.”

What puzzles Zayn is, “What else are you looking for, then? If you found your parents, why are there more documents—why?” Zayn stops, doesn’t want to stand here and tongue-tie his words anymore than he already has today. He clears his head, then carries on. “What are you looking for? You found your parents, so stop.”

“They were _burned alive,_ I want to know _why._ ”

Liam says it like it should be obvious, as if Zayn’s supposed to wake up tomorrow and ask just as many questions. It’s too late for all of that, Zayn has a life now, one he doesn’t plan on trading in for one he could have had. One that ended in flames and ash and too much burnt flesh to account for the number of people left dead inside. One that never fucking went away, never will. One he gets the pleasure of keeping with him every day, while Liam gets to dream of bunnies and rainbows and fucking unicorns.

But he prefers it that way, Zayn. Liam gets to be safe and happy and ignorant because there’s only so much you can remember as an infant. None of that will matter, though. Once Liam digs up every sordid detail. Zayn can’t shelter him from the things Liam’s rooting around for.

“No,” he says with a belligerent shake of his head, “you really fucking don’t have to know why, Liam.”

Liam’s exasperated when he responds, “Language.”

Zayn shakes his head, not taking the bait of a brand new discussion to dismiss the one they’re having. “What’s coming out of my mouth now is nothing compared to what you will hear if you don’t start minding your own business.”

Zayn doesn’t appreciate the pout Liam’s lips take. He’s never been one to cave to childish tactics. “It _is_ my business.”

“It was my parent’s house, Liam. Your hand-maiden dad and convicted mum got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. That has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with them. What you’re looking for is _my_ business, not yours.”

Liam’s hands fist in the sheets, angry. “You should want to know!”

“I don’t!” Yelling at Liam has always been draining. Zayn’s shoulders deflate. “I don’t want to know, okay? Just—stop.” He hopes Liam doesn’t see the dramatics of his actions, hopes he counts them as genuine. “I spend most of my nights trying to _bury_ that night, Liam. I don’t need you dragging up the evidence for some personal vendetta. Drop it.”

“But what if Simon—”

Zayn refuses to listen, doesn’t need conspiracy theories leaked into his brain, not with everything else that’s already up there. He’s cold when he talks again, because Liam’s trying to make very serious allegations with very serious consequences. “Don’t even go there, that’s not something you just _say._ You wanted to find your parents, Liam. You found ‘em. I don’t need to know mine. I have a dad, and I don’t need another.”

He nods, and Zayn hopes that’s enough. “Okay.”

It ends on a good note, this time. With the both of them, they never know. Every interaction they have is up in the air. Zayn accounts for all of his belongings, not wanting to leave anything behind. He sees Liam lying there, remote fished from somewhere, eyes on the TV, pretending he doesn’t glance over every few seconds just to make sure Zayn is still there.

Zayn wonders what Liam does when he finally leaves, how he looks.

There are words there, words he should have reciprocated when Liam said them, words he did repeat. But he’s not sure if Liam heard him. If Liam ever hears him when he says _I love you_ , too caught up in the headspace he’s created for himself. Zayn opens his mouth just far enough to garner Liam’s attention, but he struggles with saying anything. Doesn’t know if this is the right time. Doesn’t know if sentiments like this require a time frame. A date. A limit to the elapsed time before it’s too late.

Time, _time._

“I—”

Liam stops him with that smile, the one Zayn can’t remember not being in love with. “Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“I know.”

And that’s all Zayn really needs to hear to make it through the rest of the day. 

**/////**

“Pass the Tiella, would you? Dominic has the hand of an angel, I’ve never eaten mussels so well prepared.”

Simon’s not a large fellow, not compared to the men he keeps company with. But Zayn’s always seen him overpower a crowd with presence rather than stature. Where he sits now, on the patio of his favorite Monday restaurant— _a great way to start the week, son, ravioli and good wine_ —Simon draws the attention of each paying customer, inside the building and out. No one’s listening close enough to hear their conversation, no one would dare. But they do cast glances. Little looks at this tall man with a pressed suit and shoes that shine, even in the overcast of the sun.

It’s something that Zayn admires, wishes he could emulate—has tried. But that sort of thing is given. The good name and the high shoulders. The outlines of weapons without one blinking eye of passer-bys. The boisterous laugh, alerting everyone of the good time he’s having. Wide hands and thick fingers. Heavy watches on steady wrists. It’s all passed down.

Something Zayn has to wake up every morning and take, because he doesn’t have any of that. But he wants it. Wants it more than anything, thirsts for it, tongue heavy and lips dry.

Any chance Zayn has at staking a claim to what his father has lies in the production of the business he runs, which brings him to the point of lunch. Zayn places steady hands on the table to draw back Simon’s attention, ignoring his waiting eyes because Zayn still hasn’t passed him the requested dish. “Dad, I love Dom’s Tiella, I do—”

All it takes is a finger, a silent index finger that stays in the air and ties Zayn’s lips shut until Simon’s finished chewing. Louis, the only buffer at their table—the only other person, actually—nods at Simon on Zayn’s behalf and waves for Simon to speak after he’s had a chance to savor and swallow his food.

“I hear a but, Zayn. No buts.” The suckle of his lips as he eats his potatoes almost causes Zayn to make an unflattering face. Almost. He knows only to speak when prompted, so he waits for his dad to chew and speak again. “Let me enjoy my lunch, son. Tell me about your day. Louis, you tell me about yours.” Simon’s gestures get larger and Zayn shrinks at them, feeling like a child out of place as his dad goes on, fork in hand, poised to stab another bite of rice and potatoes. “Let’s talk about the weather, yeah? Politics, even. The string of murders plaguing London—hopefully not by your hand, no?”

Zayn shakes his head, no, he hasn’t killed anyone recently. Certainly hasn’t done so and gathered attention at the helm of it. Never that sloppy, Zayn isn’t.

Simon nods and takes another bite, and it’s strange how Zayn can physically see words sitting on his tongue, waiting to be spoken after a bite. His lips stay still, hands imitating Simon’s as he pokes around at his food, only it never enters his mouth. Zayn isn’t actually a fan of Dom’s cooking.

“Right,” his father says, nodding and chewing, waiting to speak again because table manners are important to Simon. Were stapled into him as a child, much like they were drilled into Zayn at Simon’s firm hand. “I don’t think you’d go around strangling shop owners and leaving orange toothpicks behind. What do you think they’ll call him? Nothing clever, I hope.” Simon chews for a while, head shook in annoyance at his current topic of discussion. “No one who leaves behind signatures deserves face time. Pitiful what some people will do for a moment of gratification.”

“Red,” Louis interjects after a sip of wine. “The toothpicks, sir? They’re red.”

“Dropped in blood?”

Louis denies this before Zayn gets a chance. “Novelty items sold online.”

Zayn sits back and watches them volley details of a silly case, one Zayn lacks knowledge of. Not that there’s anything to fret over, spree killers don’t last long enough around here. No one has the proper finesse anymore. He does drink his wine, sloshes it around for the appearance of culture while Louis wraps up his discussion with Simon, Zayn’s topic of conversation pertinent.

“But Zayn does have some things to discuss, Mr. Cowell. Very important, sir.”

“Then we’ll discuss it after I’ve had my lunch.”

Zayn fails to bite his tongue in time. “But—”

Simon’s finger rises again, the lax of his shoulders worn off in exchange for tense muscles and a firm hand. Zayn doesn’t revert back into his seat, not out of defiance, but respect. Simon doesn’t take well to cowering. “Let’s discuss any good books you’re read lately, Zayn. A movie, perhaps. A venture to further your education. Why your—Liam will only answer my calls on the third ring, even though I see him every day in my home office.” Zayn doesn’t doubt that Simon noticed his visible shift. “Leave the buts until after I finish my desert.”

“Dad.”

Simon relaxes again, bats off Zayn’s response with an hand and sits up straighter in his seat, tines of his fork spearing food before he shovels it into his mouth, following his bite with a swig of red bubbly that sits perfectly still in his tall glass when he sets it down again. “Take a page from my book, son. A stressed boss makes for fickle employees.”

Zayn’s fist stops just short of the table, the handle on his temper barely coming down in time for him to shut his mouth and unlock the strain of his jaw before laying his palm gently on the tabletop. “I’m here to talk about employees—Lucas.”

“Donogio?” Simon asks, and when Zayn nods the worry that sits upon his brows can almost be called endearing. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

The faith Simon has in his team has never failed him. Appreciation went a long way, Simon’s always told Zayn that. The air outside grows colder, and Zayn tries not to see it as an omen. “La Fazia is in town, taking clients.”

It doesn’t take his father long to connect the dots, and Zayn’s thankful for his common sense. His forward thinking saves them time and pointless conversation. “Landon?”

“Ross,” Zayn corrects, glad to see Simon taking him more seriously.

“Shit.”

Louis reminds Zayn of Ross’ plus one with a kick to the ankle. Fucker. “Andrew’s here, too.”

Zayn doesn’t expect Simon to laugh after his final bite of rice, plate cleared before Zayn has a chance to blink twice. If he hadn’t have seen Simon finish and Dom scurry away, he’s not sure he would believe Simon had a plate there to begin with. “You can’t have the brawn and leave the brains behind.”

“Marc gave us their sell-spot last week.” Zayn adds, “He was very cooperative,” because he’s never been one to break promises.  Only Simon doesn’t have the reaction Zayn would expect. Where there should be pride, there’s confusion. But Zayn’s laid everything out evenly, so it’s unjustified. “What?”

Simon shakes his head as if it’s nothing, but changes his mind after he finds a napkin to smudge away at the corners of his mouth. “You talked to Marc? Marc Entrsassa?”

Zayn’s answer leaves his mouth as a question, and as much as he hates being asked a question in response to a question, he hates when he’s on the giving end of his largest pet-peeve. “I did?”

Zayn notices the arm-fold, the one that is a signal of business all over this town. Crossed wrists and tapping fingers that have the power of sending jolts down Zayn’s spine in a very bad way. “And who exactly did you come across that told you it was okay to talk to Marc Enstrassa about anything other than an old TV and guitar?”

Respect is found in challenge, Zayn reminds himself. Challenge. “I wasn’t aware I needed a permission slip to talk to someone who runs a pawn shop.”

The sigh Zayn gets in return doesn’t make him feel like much of anything, something small and insignificant. A child that needs controlled. “Marc is one of my oldest friends, Zayn.”

“Marc was giving them a place to stay.”

His downfall will be that, Zayn knows it. Simon will fall to a trusted face and get stabbed in a turned back. He’s not on alert like Zayn is, doesn’t have the guards in place because he’s never had a reason to fear for anything. Not like Zayn.

“It’s coke, son. The La Fazia boys could get away with a lot more carrying around that name.”

Zayn knows it’s not smart to mock, but he scoffs anyway, has a laugh at the back of his throat that’s very much presented at the front of the conversation. “I don’t give a shit what they’re carrying around. This is my—”

“No, it’s mine.” Zayn does shrink at that, because the sting is real. Worse than an open palm in retaliation. Simon doesn’t raise his voice, knows better than to draw extra attention to their table. Isn’t loose-lipped about their secrets. His secrets. Fucking _his._ “All of this is mine. Mine, that I’m sharing with you, and the rest of this family.”

Zayn wants to speak, or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wants to dissolve. Drown right here in this seat, right in his own blood. Tears, maybe. If he was prone to crying.

Simon isn’t done talking, no, not yet. Zayn’s hands don’t shake, they don’t. But they do pulse. Blood fighting to crawl past the closed circulation of a clenched fist. “A family full of uncles and nephews that tend to their shies just fine, without rattling cages of sleeping dogs.”

Washing his hands of the situation, Zayn pushes his plate forward silently. A lesson in restraint he doesn’t know who to blame for, one that might save his life but not his dignity. “I didn’t come here to bounce around metaphors with you, dad. But since we’ve already landed on the subject.”

“Zayn, _no._ ”

Louis’ pleas go ignored and Zayn’s rant is finished with an even amount of veracity and deference. “Don’t mistake sleeping for _lurking._ And if you don’t see to it that those leashes are tightened, your _dogs_ are going to bite you in the ass.”

Seeing Zayn’s irritation for all the wrong reasons, Simon makes a sloppy assumption. “I don’t need you to tell me how to run my business because Ross used to have relations with your little girlfriend.”

In hindsight, Zayn should have let Simon finish his sentence before speaking, but that’s a vision that’s always 20/20. He doesn’t stand, but he finds himself at the end of his seat, utensils shaking at the force of Zayn’s fists in the tablecloth. “Ross has never fucking touched Liam. If he had, he’d be fucking dead, not selling rocks on the some shitty part of town.”

“Perrie.”

“What?”

Simon doesn’t do anything but fucking sigh again, and Zayn’s tenacity is lost somewhere between spoken comments and jibes below the belt of his trousers. “Ross was engaged to Perrie.”

“I—”

Simon dismisses him with a cold hand. “Devon will handle the cousins.”

Zayn’s hands curl into dangerous fists, this is intolerable. “I can do my job, sir.”

Everything is falling and the disappointment in the eyes of his own father is a burden Zayn’s never learned how to bear on his back. Simon’s done with the situation, Zayn can tell in the fold of his hands across his lap. He won’t even fucking look at Zayn when he says, “There are people who can do it better.”

Zayn does stand that time, done with the need to sit and be berated with platitudes that aren’t meant for him. No longer can Zayn stomach the sick crunching of his bones as Simon strikes him with passing looks and unfamiliar tones of irritation—it kills him. Choked with something akin to disappointment, Zayn makes a plea he knows won’t get him far, even before it comes out of his mouth. “That’s not—fuck, that’s not fair, Simon.”

There’s no remorse, no softening when Simon speaks again, and Zayn knows—can feel it—he needs to leave. He isn’t doing himself any good by being here. Rejection hits Zayn hard, it’s foreign and strange and makes his chest hurt. “Next time, Zayn, I suggest you align your priorities before you request a sit-down with me. I have a business to run.”

It comes out, spills from Zayn’s mouth because control has vanished. Zayn is a cannon, a loose one. “The more I think about it, Simon, the more I don’t blame Liam for—”

Louis’ is standing beside Zayn in an instant, fingers wrapped around the top of his arm, yanking. “Zayn, we’re leaving.”

Simon smarts Zayn with a shake of his head, suggesting Zayn a fool. “You should listen to your friend.”

“Fuck you.” Zayn doesn’t care who looks, who gasps in awe, or how Simon takes it. He says his piece and leaves, shaking Louis off him because he doesn’t need a goddamn babysitter.

“See you at home, son.” Simon calls after him, and Zayn isn’t afraid to say he calls on the petulance of his younger days when he lifts both of his middle fingers in reply.

**/////**

Panic rolls past him in waves. Actual waves, with denim rips of water tackling Zayn to his knees. Dark, dark, dark—it’s dark. Zayn looks around for the flames, needs the burn on his skin. The salt is too much. The weight of the air suffocates him. The ends of oxygen are what he wants to feed on. The last breath of air until there’s none left. The air isn’t thin enough to make his ribs ache.

Too thick. Too dark. Too heavy.

Grains find their way to his hands, compilations cutting deep. Searing into his palms in a way that the flames never do. Salt in an open wound, grains. Sand in his palms and knees and face. Zayn’s cut open, can’t run. It’s not hot enough, just heavy. The air is too heavy.

He runs and runs until he’s away from the water, away from the whips to his legs and the salt on his skin. But it chases him, goes where he goes. Comes with rocks and sand and wind that doesn’t allow Zayn to stay on his feet. Always falling, he is. Out of his element.

He would scream, yell out for help. But there are no more souls here, just his own. Dark and heavy and cold. Running, Zayn never stops running. Doesn’t care if the water is behind him, he tries. Tries, and tries, and tries.

He only looks back to see what he’s gained, to see the time he has. _Always running out of time._ But there’s a beacon. Red and in the water, too far to see but it’s there, floating and bobbing closer. Just close enough if he runs in the opposite direction, through water and snappers and rocks.

Zayn turns around, doesn’t think.

Triangular, he doesn’t take his eyes away. No, there’s no light, never any light. Too dark. But it shines red. And it moves, keeps moving. Zayn has an advantage. Bobbing, bobbing, Zayn is glad for the skill of wading. Swimming, though it burns. It looks so close but the sinews of his arms feel the distance.

The real fire, right underneath his skin.

Black dots, Zayn’s close enough to see black dots staining the red canvas. Dot after dot. Dot. Dot.

Zayn stops swimming, kicks his legs. Moves them—thrashes to stay afloat. She’s standing there and Zayn doesn’t think he should go any closer.

Hands out, she has her hands out. She wants to help, cloaked in red. But Zayn wants to drown, doesn’t trust the reflection of himself under her mop of hair and trimmed brows. _“No,”_ he doesn’t know if he yells it. He can’t hear over the ocean, over the life beneath it and the death it’s surface threatens to bring. _Too much water._ _“Fuck you, no.”_

Hands, her hands are still there. Zayn doesn’t know the power she possesses, but he does know that he moves. His body moves without help from the water and without his permission. Back and forth, forwards and backwards. Zayn wants it to stop.

Needs it to stop.

_“Zayn!”_

She’s in his mind, because her lips don’t move. Her mouth is still but he hears a voice in his head. Girly, very feminine.

 _“Zayn,”_ she yells again. _“Zayn, please!”_

She shouldn’t know his name. Zayn doesn’t know hers. It’s not fair. She’s’ a dream. A nightmare. She doesn’t exist outside of the fire. The water.

Not real, she’s not real.

_“Zayn, wake up!”_

Zayn opens his eyes, and his nightmares are gone. But there’s still someone above him, looking down.

The eyes aren’t right. It’s like diving back into the water. Cold and blue and just—not the eyes Zayn wants to wake up to. Not the deep and dark and brown ones that save him. No, not those. It’s all off. He sits for a minute longer, reminds himself that this is real. _This_ is his reality.

Zayn can move his arms and fingers and legs and—this is it.

Only he’s being shaken still, and it’s not the right pressure, too light. The fingers aren’t the same, either. It’s not Liam. That’s all he can discern. _It’s not Liam._ “Zayn, hurry up. _Get up._ ”

Perrie. Perrie, it’s Perrie. Zayn knows that voice and those hands, wishes he didn’t, but does.

“Zayn, you need to wake up.”

He’s groggy, and his skin is still frosted, lined with bumps and ice. He still shivers, the salt still very present in his nostrils. “What,” he asks. All he says. “What are you—why are you in my room?”

“It’s Liam.”

Liam, what? Zayn, he can’t. He doesn’t understand.

“What about Liam, Perrie? Why the—if you’re in here to preach some jealousy bullshit, may I remind you that—”

“There’s been an accident.”

And Zayn finds himself wishing for his nightmares to return.

**/////**

Pale and cold and sterile, Zayn hates hospitals.

The burn at his side—a mark that he forgets more often than not—healed in halls like this. Waiting his turn, for information and grafting that he didn’t _need._ They’re cold, freezing. And Zayn has trouble, closes his eyes and opens them time and time again to make sure that this isn’t his nightmare.

The one he just arose from. Was shaken from.

And the stench of acid and salt-breeze is replaced with antiseptic and bleach. It still stings, still hurts because Liam is somewhere in these halls—intensive care, the clerk says—and that. That’s scary to Zayn.

Brings him more fear than he’s had in—ever. He’s never been this afraid.

Eleanor is there in front of him, waiting in front of a room with the biggest window to Zayn’s hurt. Still and bruised, Liam’s just fucking laying there. Zayn can see him breathing, big whooping breaths that move his whole body—long and lean and battered and fucking still. Zayn doesn’t ask, just turns the doorknob, yells at everyone to move away from where he stands looking through the glass. The doctor inside, the nurse setting bandages, they need to move, Zayn should be doing that.

Why they fuck would they bring him here, he wants to know.

But the door is locked, Zayn wiggles his hand, turns and turns and turns with no give. A gun, he needs a gun. “Someone unlock this fucking door! I— _unlock it!_ ”

Eleanor starts crying, Zayn doesn’t know the fuck why. Liam is alive—unmoving but alive. Bruised but breathing. There isn’t a need for tears, this doesn’t call for crying. Anger, Zayn wants her angry. Needs her that way, so his rage is rational. She reaches out to him, puts her hands on his back. He only knows she’s crying because he can hear her. Only knows it’s her because he can see her through the reflection of the glass.

The glass Liam is behind. The glass now being covered by staff with curtains from inside the room.

He bangs, rattles the barrier with his hands because he wants in. Zayn should be in there.

“Sir, please have a seat.” Concerned nurses swirl them, and Zayn needs his gun, never should have left it in the vehicle.

Eleanor tugs at Zayn’s wrists, tries to pull his pounding fists away from the glass. “Calm down, Zayn!”

“Sir! Please, stop!”

Zayn roars, doesn’t know what all he says, just knows that he yells. Screams and shouts and twists away from grabby hands until he’s at his knees, eyes just above the window. Where he sees nothing but the thick, blue fabric of a curtain.

But the vision is engrained. Marks and brand new scars. Blue and purple the only color he can remember. The only color he sees when he closes his eyes and sees the imprint of Liam’s tainted skin. He tries again, to close them, Zayn does. And reopen them to a different reality. One where Liam isn’t in a fucking hospital bed and Zayn isn’t outside waiting on his knees, fists beating whatever they can touch.

Eleanor follows him to the ground, Zayn doesn’t want her here. Doesn’t think he does. But when she cradles his shoulder, he fails to move away. Stays rooted in one spot and struggles with the irritation of her tears.

“Who did it?” He’s stopped yelling, composed himself at the thought of someone doing this out of malice. Doing this at all. “All of them, El. I’ll kill all of them.”

“Zayn, calm down, it’s a few bruises.” Zayn wants to ask her why the fuck she’s crying, then, if it’s only a few bruises. There shouldn’t be any bruises. None. She keeps talking and rubbing, her hand and words doing nothing to calm him, but they keep him on the ground. “He’s only at the hospital because someone found him. If we would have known, we could have patched him up somewhere else.”

That does nothing for Zayn.

“Someone found him?” The thought of Liam lying somewhere, cold and hurt and waiting to be found, it tightens the pain in Zayn’s chest. “He wasn’t conscious enough to call the fucking—let me see him.”

Zayn’s done talking to Eleanor; he looks around for someone important. A lady with scrubs and a deep-set frown catches his attention—the one yelling at him, warning him of her actions to call security when Zayn stands and starts pacing frantically. “I want to see him. I don’t give a fuck if he’s sleeping or if they’re giving him a check up, a nose job—fucking colonoscopy. I want in there, now.”

He has to give the nurse credit, with everyone around, she doesn’t flinch, knows her orders and follows them. Zayn can honor that. She soft when she talks, though. Zayn doesn’t know what that means, but doesn’t like it. He wants her respect, not her pity.

“He’s sleeping, sir.” She reaches to comfort him with a hand to the wrist, and luckily enough Eleanor shakes her head to advise her against it. Zayn doesn’t want to be touched or placated, he wants to see Liam. One barrier. A shot of a bullet or a heavy fist, that will fix it. But he doesn’t want to be told to leave. Has to stay. “Once they wrap his wounds again and call someone of an official capacity—like his father or his mother, someone who can make decisions for him while he’s not conscious, then we can assign visitors.”

She’s talking, but all Zayn can hear is that he can’t go in.

“Liam doesn’t have any parents, I should be in there.” Zayn can see her start to open her mouth once more, and Zayn appreciates her help, but she’s not doing anything for him. Back at square one, he is. Zayn dismisses her by turning his back, back to Eleanor who will always give Zayn the truth, _blunt and brutal_ , but the truth. “Where’s Simon? Does dad know about this? Tell me he’s on his way.”

Zayn can’t imagine having to look at his father right now, not since their disagreement, but he’s Zayn’s only ticket. His only chance. Zayn paces a line, treads the floor and is thankful for the lack of static he picks up from the linoleum. He doesn’t need another shock. Not right now.

“Simon’s on his way, they can’t let anyone in until he gets here.” El stops his pacing, bulldozes him into a chair Louis’ pulled up—Zayn didn’t know he’d even come inside. It’s a terrible idea, on her part. Horrible. Because walking back and forth in a straight, controlled line was the only thing keeping Zayn from driving the jut of his nails into his palm. Eleanor rubs circles into the top of Zayn’s shoulders. “I got a call from Missy who works the ER, she said she would have called you but she doesn’t have your number.”

“Missy’s got a big fucking mouth, who else knows Liam’s here.” Zayn keeps telling himself that Liam is breathing, Liam is being attended to. _Liam is fine._ This looks horrible, Liam being used as a target for someone firing at Simon. Maybe Zayn, but probably Simon. This—it shouldn’t have happened. “Where did they find him?”

“Outside some shithole on my side of town, not at all close to his apartment.”

Zayn gives her credit for slipping that in, before Zayn gets himself worked up at the idea of one of the dipshits in Liam’s neighborhood doing something stupid just to occupy their weekend night. Her hands are only just warmer than his, and while annoying, they do distract him from ripping the legs off the chair he’s seated in.

“What shithole, then?”

Louis is now somewhere taking Perrie away, Zayn appreciates that he doesn’t even need to be asked. It’s a request Zayn makes silently while butchering himself over the thought of Liam opening his eyes to see pink hair at Zayn’s side. And blue eyes and white skin. No, can’t see it without more pain to his chest. A throbbing Zayn’s just only realized.

“All I know is they found briefcases all around him. Three, I think.” She raises her hands when Zayn prods for more details. “That’s all they told me, okay? Or, Louis. Louis called around while he drove you and Pez here, they found empty briefcases.”

“What was in them?”

She shakes her head, and no. Zayn wants what Eleanor had before, information. No shaking. Nodding, Zayn wants nodding. “Nothing when they got there. Narcs have already come around the scene, promising to figure it out. But once they figure out who Liam is, I don’t think they’ll be very worried about what happened to ‘em. Him or the cases.”

The power in a name, Zayn reminds himself. The consequences ring out, seldom but still present. Zayn stands, though. He’s had enough of sitting. Doesn’t want to be in a chair lest it be beside Liam’s bed. “You think it’s money,” he asks? His knuckles crack over and over again. Zayn can’t sit still. Not anymore. Running, thoughts do. They run through his head and the adrenaline courses through his limbs. Action, too much of it. “If someone did this for money—”

Eleanor’s hair falls out of the shitty bun she’s placed it in, a collapse of negatives. No information, more shaking. Zayn wants to fall. “No, Zayn. He was at the _library_. We had biscotti at the bistro down by my house? And he said he was footing it to the library. There’s like three on this side of the tracks. They found him in some alley somewhere, drew attention when some pig was doing rounds. No one’s gonna jack Liam for books.”

Liam’s not dumb enough to walk around town with briefcases full of money, and Zayn doubts he would be making an large withdrawals in the science fiction section of the library at night. Briefcases only hold money, personal belongings, and maybe documents. Zayn’s exiled the option of money, and no one would jump Liam for a spare keychain and some chewing gum. But the papers, they would steal papers—documents.

With Liam’s ever present hunt for things he’s not been authorized to know, it’s not unlikely.

“Which library,” Zayn asks, coming close to her, nose to nose. “Which library was he at, Elah?”

“Fuck if I know.”

He has no intention of shaking her so hard, it just happens. His strength is lost on him, but Eleanor feels it. Feels how anxious and worried Zayn is, and he vows to apologize. Later. “Think, Eleanor! Which fucking library?”

 The fear in her eyes doesn’t excite him; it paints worry down his spine in heavy coats. That she doesn’t know, that she’s guessing. But Zayn will take anything to confirm any suspicions he might have. Anything.

The isolation of ignorance is terrifying.

“Tell me. Think, El.” There’s more shaking, but he’s gentler. Zayn needs her to understand that this matters. “I need—fuck, Eleanor. It’s important.”

“The main branch, okay?” She nods reverently, sure. She’s sure. Zayn needs assurance. “It’s open the latest and I passed by it on my way home. The others would be too far. The main branch, Zayn. The city library, that’s where he was.”

The city library, with open public records.

Almanacs and city itineraries and dated news articles.

“Zayn, who’s going to care?” Eleanor looks panicked; Zayn assumes it’s on Liam’s behalf. “They’re books.”

“No, El. They’re records.”

“Who’s gonna give a shit about what Liam looks into at the library?”

His jaw tightens, and Zayn doesn’t want to actually think it—think that someone Zayn trusts would be capable of such a thing. “The only person who would think they could fuck Liam up and get away with it.”

“Who, Zayn.” There’s paranoia there in Eleanor’s eyes that Zayn doesn’t have the time to read into. She tugs on the sleeve of his shirt. “Who?”

He debates telling her, but Zayn thinks she can be trusted, trusts her with everything else.

“Just do me a favor and don’t mention this conversation to anyone else.” Zayn bloodies his lip with his teeth, sucks the blood back into his mouth to erase the evidence of his jittered nerves. “Money, okay? Tell Simon money was in the cases, that we turned over some books at the club and we were keeping it underground when Liam got snaked.”

“Zayn, why can’t we tell Simon?” Eleanor should be more outraged, more concerned with getting Liam justice, no matter it be at the hand of law enforcement or Zayn’s father, but she isn’t. She’s trying to follow Zayn’s logic first, leaving her worry for later. “You don’t think he’ll be able to help—”

“Simon’s the one who called the shots.”

The shock she shows is exactly how Zayn felt, feels. There’s genuine confusion there, and while it’s endearing that she doubt Simon’s ruthlessness in covering his tracks, Zayn needs Eleanor to trust him. And believe him. “What are you talking about, Zayn?”

Zayn sighs, hates the way the words sound in his head. Hates the way they taste when they come out. “Liam was looking into the fire, El.”

“So?”

“We can’t tell Simon we know where Liam was, because he got Liam jumped.” Zayn wants to cry now, would welcome it. But keeps a brave face to the betrayal. “Simon’s always been the initial suspect to set the fire, Eleanor. Gained two sons out of it, but they can’t prove it. Everyone knows but us. But Liam. Liam wouldn’t understand. Simon did it—he wanted to protect us.”

“Why would your dad—”

“Liam knows too much,” he says. Hopes she can hear the finality. “Liam is in the hospital because Simon thought he knew too much. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be next.”

**/////**

“You know, worry— _fuck,_ worry gives you wrinkles.”

Zayn’s neck cracks, almost snaps at the speed he turns. Looks up from Liam’s hands to see his eyes. His mouth. Lines Zayn’s spent the last hour recreating in his mind—because it’s all screwed up in his head. All different from the last time he’d seen Liam. New marks and scars and bruises and dark little stitches.

It’s odd how he can miss Liam while he’s looking right at him.

“Do I have wrinkles?” Zayn feels dumb before he finishes speaking, hates the way his tongue sits thick and heavy in his mouth. Words fail him because what the fuck is he supposed to say? “Shit, that wasn’t—I don’t, though, right? I don’t, like, have wrinkles?”

Liam isn’t shy about laughing at him, and Zayn wishes Liam didn’t wince when his faced moved along with his guffaw. When Liam’s cheek bunches, his face turns a frightening shade of red. Zayn will never admit it out loud—will barely own up to it in his head—but he loves those lines. The ones around Liam’s eyes. And the bright balls of his cheeks, Zayn would like to see those and not want to put his fist through a wall—without Liam gasping in pain.

It’s not fair.

Zayn should be in his place—that’s their cosmic balance. Zayn lies broken and Liam has to look over the pieces. He should be there. _Simon._ Simon should fucking—Zayn swallows and follows the insignificant movements to the right of his body. Where Simon and Zayn’s uncles stand idly outside the room talking quietly amongst themselves, Nan herding them away because no one has noticed Liam’s eyes are open. No one cares as much as Zayn.

No one deserves to fucking be in here, just him.

That’s how Zayn insisted it be as soon as his father—Simon—arrived.

His stomach makes noise, an admirable emission of what Zayn’s feeling. He’s going to be fucking sick, that’s what.

“Be careful there, chuckles,” Zayn says, mouth moving without his permission, like his body knows what’s best for him instead his brain. He turns back to Liam, because that’s safer, a haven of sorts. “Keep laughing at me and karma’s gonna rip your fucking stitches.”

Liam’s groan is the least bit sexual, it rips a much needed strip of laughter out of Zayn’s chest. He hates stitches, Liam; says they make him itch. It’s been a thing, one Zayn’s forgotten about, couldn’t stand them as a kid—one of many reasons he was a calmer child. He smiles more at those memories, and then stops himself.

This isn’t supposed to be fun, the two of them here. Zayn shouldn’t’ be laughing.

“How many?” Liam asks, making Zayn flinch when Liam squeezes his hand. His hands are cold, so cold.

Zayn’s forced to stop himself again, laughter threatening to spill from his lips at the crease in Liam’s forehead, nice and neat and not bruised. No discoloring. Zayn stops him from moving his hands to his face to count for himself, doesn’t need Liam biting his lips at the IV at his hand.

Zayn wonders if he’s even noticed.

He also wonders if he stops Liam because he doesn’t want to let go.

“Twelve stitches between your eyebrows,” he says, squeezing Liam’s fingers and doing a shitty job of ignoring the drip of painkillers injected into the top of Liam’s hands. His knuckles are crap, Zayn tries closing and reopening his eyes, but the colors stay there. Liam’s pain doesn’t go away the longer Zayn keeps blinking. “Your hands aren’t broken, but they’re fucked. At least I know you weren’t a pussy about it, getting your ass kicked—getting caught up like you did.”

Zayn doesn’t want to say it because it fucking sucks, sticks a skewer in his chest every time his mind flashes to Liam walking down the street and getting blinded by an asshole under some type of screwed up orders. Zayn’s own fa—he shakes his head and concentrates on Liam’s hand in his own. The chair he’s in is uncomfortable but Zayn doesn’t see himself moving no matter how much the poly-blend of the chair scratches through his pajama bottoms.

He rubs his thumb across painted knuckles, blue and pink and red. Liam’s hand twitches, Zayn thinks it might tickle. Or maybe Liam doesn’t like it. Zayn doubts that, though. Liam lives for this girly shit. And if not, fuck it. This is as much for Zayn as it is for Liam. “Why am I hooked up to all these machines, Zayn?”

He should sound like a child, small and fragile and in a hospital bed. In a fucking hospital bed. But his maturity shines through, he sounds worried for Zayn. Like he knows Zayn is freaking out, panicking. Fuck him and every observant skill he’s ever picked up. Zayn looks up at him, doesn’t wince because he knows that would hurt Liam’s feelings, and fuck, he doesn’t want to do that.

He’s still goddamn beautiful, busted lips and eyebrows dotted with black lines, damn him for that. Purple eyes and everything, and Zayn still wants to kiss him. Make sure he’s alright, see if his jaw moves the same.

“They had to check your big, dumb head for swelling.” He plays it off, but Zayn doesn’t recall ever being so terrified in his life, waiting for a professional to tell him that Liam’s brain isn’t swollen because some shithead dropped him on a curb. “They had me waiting outside for two hours, you believe that?”

Liam snorts, but it’s soft, he’s more careful about moving his face. “How much do we owe the hospital?”

Zayn’s jaw clenches; he wonders if Liam had woken up while Zayn was dozing and gotten an earful from Eleanor. That’s the only reason he would even ask that. Or maybe he just knows Zayn and his tendency to overreact where Liam is concerned. His fingers hold on to Liam’s a little tighter than he should, but it feels right.

“I broke, like, one chair. Don’t let that bitch Eleanor tell you anything other than that.”

Zayn loves the sound—the laugh Liam lets loose. It’s warm and giving, gives Zayn slivers of hope to keep filling his lungs with the air of this fucked up world. And Liam laughing makes Zayn hate everything a little less. “How do you feel? Really? No macho bullshit, you feel alright? You have, three broken bones, I don’t want any manly BS.”

Liam can’t lift a brow, learns this the hard way. Zayn’s grateful for the lack of sass he’ll be able to receive for the time being. He does raise his hand to rub the pain away, but Zayn sees how well that works out, bruised fingers stroking bruised skin. Zayn could scream. “I’m the one that puts on a front, Zayn? Really?”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

The affection that sits there in those brown eyes—fuck, Zayn can’t sit here and look at that. Liam goddamn knows that, laughs a little when Zayn looks away but still keeps his hand close. Wouldn’t dream of letting go. Serves him right, though, when Liam coughs, his laughs dissolving into coughs before he wipes his mouth, careful not to snag the needle of his drip on his cheek.

“I’m fine, okay? My head hurts, really bad. Like a b—bad. And I can’t move my feet because some cocksuc—asshole, shit.” Zayn smiles at Liam, can’t help it. It’s annoying but really fucking cute how Liam tries not to cuss after waking up in a hospital bed at the hand of some moron. “An idiot ran over my foot when they were driving away.”

The anger starts again, flares. Liam sits up fast to grab Zayn’s retreating hands, bring them back over the railing of his bed before he can spread his fingers over his thighs, rub back and forth.

The white starts to get to him. White walls and white sheets. Pastel bed sheets and white walls. Pale Liam. Purple Liam. Red Liam. Liam in pain on an IV and a medical mat. “They were dicks, Zayn. Not even worth getting worked up over.”

“There was more than one, that’s what you’re telling me, right?” Zayn breathes, has to breathe. Won’t get through this if he doesn’t breathe. “One guy didn’t run up on you from behind, mess you up in the dark. Catch you by surprise?”

“You think I got this fucked up by one guy?”

Zayn grins at Liam’s curse word, lets him grab Zayn’s hand and squeeze, it’s as much as Zayn will allow, knowing that Simon and his uncles could come back at any time. It’s complicated, Zayn and Liam. They don’t parade. “Zayn, I know how to fight, Jesus.”

“You’re gonna have to know how to do a lot more than that if you don’t stop putting your nose into—”

Change of emotion, a slip up that Zayn immediately wants to take back. Wants to stay here, arm hanging awkwardly over Liam’s bedside, pins and needles doing nothing to deter him. Needs a bubble, they do—one impenetrable to all the things going on around them. The conspiracies and secrets and lies. “So you know?”

But it’s not that easy.

Nothing is easy. There’s nothing that doesn’t cost them something, be it their soul or their hearts or—each other. One day that’s what it will be. Each other. “And what? You found some newspaper clippings with Simon’s face on them?”

“What are you talking about?”

Zayn has never taken well to feigned ignorance, doesn’t see why Liam would lie to his face. He does stand then, bats away Liam’s grabbing hands as gently as possible with the reoccurring red lines tunneling his vision. He throws his arms in the air, closes the curtains after checking for a clear hallway. “Whatever you found on the fire, forget about it.” Zayn taps his forehead, tap, tap, tap. “Erase it from your fucking brain, okay?”

“I didn’t look up anything, Zayn. Not about that.”

Zayn only notices how easily voices carry when Liam talks, speaks louder over the lump in his voice. The hurt in his hands that Zayn can’t see right now, is blind to. His own fault, too much. Too much information. Too much digging. Too much. “Keep your voice down, would you?”

“You’re the one who started yelling.” Liam’s petulant, arms crossed as much as possible with tubes running down his biceps, across his forearms. “Don’t yell at me, I didn’t find _anything_ about the fire.”

Liam’ss hair falls into his eyes and Zayn holds back, stops himself from walking to brush it away. He’s babying him, he decides. Tough love, Liam needs it. Zayn needs to give it to him. “Whatever you found, it landed you here.”

Zayn is almost in stitches himself, letting out a full-belly cackle, rude and evil and harsh after Liam suggests, “You don’t think it was random? Someone did this—did it on purpose?”

“Nothing is ever random, never.” Straight lines, one way and then the other, Zayn walks. It’s an even, controlled pace, something Zayn needs, he only looks up because the bump under Liam’s eye fuels him, makes the words coming out of his mouth even more necessary. “You couldn’t keep your nose clean, keep your head in your own business for five seconds.”

“I was doing it for you!”

That makes it even worse, gives Zayn a double dosage, makes him feel even more like shit than he already does. Dangerous, all of this is dangerous. Questions with real answers, answers hidden underneath the wrong questions. Zayn takes orders, has never tried his hand at anything else. And he’s never been here because of it, never been lying with sedatives in his veins with marks explained by unknown faces.

Zayn screws his mouth shut in favor of not making Liam’s eyes sadder than they are in that second. He doesn’t want to yell, but whispering feels even louder. More effective, potent. “What the fuck do your parents, that fire, whatever else—what does that have to do with me? Don’t go doing me any favors, Liam. I told you I’m not interested.”

Liam is quiet for so long that Zayn has to do a double take behind him, make sure Simon hasn’t suddenly appeared—he hasn’t. Liam’s still quiet and Zayn thinks he has every reason to talk, should be spewing explanations or apologies or something. Zayn stands at the end of his bed, as close as he can get—no closer. Zayn won’t allow himself the luxury, not right now. “Your dad arrested him you know? He was a cop. He arrested Simon a bunch of times, too many for them to be strangers.”

Zayn could say he has to swallow his questions along with his pride, but that would be a lie. He’s programmed not to care about anything that doesn’t show an immediate relevancy. That should break his heart, that Zayn’s a machine for warfare use, but it doesn’t. Zayn’s heart beats for the person lying in front of him, that’s it, nothing else. Not himself.

He hasn’t got the time for self-pity or self-questioning. Zayn runs his hands along the metal, cold and grey and the nearest thing to grip his fingers around. “Don’t even tell me, I don’t care.”

“He said he didn’t know, he was just passing by.” Zayn sees how eager Liam is to share, uses his brain to catapult them into the future, where Liam will be breathing from tubes next time. Not enough blood left in his body to leave a spectrum of handprints on his body. He leans forward, their bodies gravitating, but Zayn steps back. He can’t be cruel this close, can’t give Liam what he needs. Liam looks hurt, a pain that radiates from inside, but he keeps talking. “Growing up, when I asked, Simon told me— He said it was a coincidence that he was there to take us in. It _wasn’t_ a coincidence, it couldn’t’ have been.”

“It’s not his fault you were the only one stupid enough to believe that.”

Liam visibly falls back, Zayn should have hit him, it might have shocked him less. Maybe. He licks his lips, Liam. Over and over again while he looks at Zayn, waiting for a give that will never show. Zayn’s already prepared himself, for a good cause, too. Tough love, he reminds himself. _Rough_ love. “There’s more, that’s not all—”

Zayn hopes he didn’t disconnect any cords, but can’t help it. The bed shakes under his arms, he uses the end handle to move it, a physical response to Liam’s words. So he can show him how a _ngry_ it makes Zayn that he still has to hear about this shit. “You’re lying in a hospital bed, what don’t you _get_ about that? What doesn’t register? Fuck, Liam. Just _stop._ ”

“What,” he asks, like he doesn’t know. Liam’s not _getting it._

Zayn has to sit down, his knees can’t hold him. Nothing is holding him. All he’s going to be left with is nothing. If Liam’s gone—he’ll have nothing. Without him, Zayn is nothing. Won’t amount to anything. Patter, patter, his heart thumps erratically inside his chest, and that’s all for Liam, the blood and the tears and the adrenaline, all of that has Liam’s name on it. Sketched in dark letters formed by burn marks and handprints.

“Stop looking. Mind your own fucking business— _god,_ how many times do I have to say that? Just because you want to know when and where and how your stupid fu— _shit._ ” Zayn’s hands fall to his hair, he won’t look, can’t. Not at Liam. Not while he does this, it’ll break him—into a million tiny pieces that he won’t be able to glue back together. Liam might not ever want to speak with him after tonight—today, damn. But he’ll be too wounded to stick his nose into books, so it won’t matter. This matters. When Zayn does open his eyes he looks at Liam’s sheets, his pillows. Anywhere but his eyes. “They walked into a fire, they’re dead. Your parents and mine, and I’m _tired_ of hearing about it. They’re dead, and probably a lot more useful that way.”

“You act so tough—” There’s a thickness there that’s Zayn’s fault. Liam’s voice shakes and Zayn is at a loss, has no clue what to do with that, just carries on.

“It’s not an act, Liam. Dead is _dead._ Whether they were upstanding citizens of this city or not—I don’t care.” He swallows, wets his throat because Zayn can’t falter here, can’t afford to mess up. Liam looks lost and Zayn doesn’t want him finding his way back, it’s safer this way. “If my mom was a jailhouse junkie, I don’t care. Whether Simon burned them alive,” Zayn shakes his head. “Still don’t give a shit. I’m not gonna end up like them because I want a list of names to scribble on my family tree.”

“And I am? Gonna end up like them?” Liam’s scared, and he should be.

Liam should be scared, should temporarily live in fear because he was shut up by Simon. Simon did this, Zayn was sure of it. There wasn’t any other explanation. And if—if there was, Zayn’s just taking precautions. It has to be done.

For Liam, this is for Liam.

“Look at where you are, Liam. Lying in a, uh, in a fucking hospital bed. You almost _did_ end up like them.”

The final nail is set to be hammered, but Zayn doesn’t know whose hurting worse. Who aches deeper when Zayn turns and walks away from Liam, feet taking him to the door, hand reeling back at the chill of the doorknob. “Where are you going?”

It’s childlike, Zayn remembers that voice, nightmares and chills and broken bones. A wounded and hurting Liam, that’s what that is. Where that small timbre comes from.

“Twenty-two years,” Zayn says, forehead falling on the doorjamb. He wants to turn around, needs to turn around and say he’s sorry. Apologize because he’s a dick, Zayn knows that. And later, much later when Liam is talking to him again and Zayn is sure that he has no interest in feeling this low—getting kicked this hard—Zayn will kiss his nose and lips and chin, and that’s how he’ll give his condolences. Not now, though. Not now. “I made sure nothing happened to you for two fucking decades—spent all that time keeping your head out of your ass.”

“Zayn—”

More pleading. Zayn closes his eyes, cold harsh metal cooling his hothead. Worried, he worries about Liam, but doesn’t know how to stop. He has to keep going. “You wanna get killed, Li? Got some big theory you want to take to the bank? Maybe to the cops who never came looking for you? For either of us, because they don’t—” he pauses, shakes his head. “They don’t give a shit about us, Liam. You’re counting on a system that’s failed you in more ways than one.”

Zayn opens the door, hates that he has to wrap this up, leave it like this. Fuck, he wishes Liam would get the message, wishes he had been smart enough to do this earlier. Liam would have benefitted from it. Zayn never should have let this happen.

“You’re leaving?”

Zayn nods. “Check off the things on your bucket list before you decide to play Nancy Drew again, yeah? This was a warning. I’ve known Simon long enough to know a second chance is all you get.”

**/////**

Zayn can’t see himself e-mailing important pieces of information, no, he’s not that stupid. It’s the same reason he doesn’t text details of his work or write things down on paper to be sniffed out later. The simple square of a paper trail. His mouth was very capable of doing all the necessary talking, and a chain of command was an age-old method of communication that Zayn didn’t fancy abandoning.

But right now, his internet usage has nothing to do with any of Simon’s business, but his own. It wasn’t illegal to order new tumblers and paper towels, just a pain in the ass. And the lag of Eleanor’s personal computer left Zayn with his hands in his hair and shallow breaths erupting from his chest. He’s righted after unplugging their router, fitfully deciding that removing his gun from its under-desk holster across the room would do more harm than good, he can’t shoot the damn thing to life. But once the internet reconnects, some dumb window popping up that Zayn presses OK to, he’s good to go, and everything is ordered.

It’s the scan that has him chewing the inside of his cheek, it’s out of place, run for a game. He’s spent enough time around Niall to notice a Trojan when he sees one. Zayn only debates for a second before letting the false program run its course before calling Niall directly from his phone and requesting his assistance sometime this afternoon. It’s Eleanor’s computer, not Zayn’s, there’s nothing to hide, sans for credit card numbers that are linked to accounts that trace unusual spending patterns.

Zayn leaves El’s office nice and tidy, nothing out of place as to not cause a flare of anger that he wasn’t equipped to field today. He’s careful not to shuffle his feet—shuffling is pathetic, for people who can’t shoulder the weight of the world long enough to pick their feet completely up from the ground whilst walking from one place to another—on his way to his office. He stomachs a look at Liam’s desk, lets his eyes linger over the stacks of schedules and briefs unattended, the pile is ridiculous, and also none of Zayn’s business.

“Don’t just look at it, Zayn, pick it up. The least you could do is help me pick up some slack around here.”

That is until Eleanor catches him staring in appreciation for the fuck-load of paperwork allowed to accumulate in the allotted amount of time regarding Liam’s absence. He rubs at his lip and keeps walking, only refrains from clicking the door shut because a slap over the back of his head isn’t on his agenda.

“I hired a manager for a reason, that’s you.” Zayn sits comfortably in his seat, swirls around once because he can, then produces his phone from the front pocket of his trousers. “I’ve got calls to make for the rest of the day, then I’ll be out making collections. I don’t have time to do any stray bookkeeping.”

He sees her standing there, slacks high on her hips, arms folded across her chest, suggesting she’s not very pleased with him. Zayn keeps to himself, lets his fingers and eyes do whatever talking that needs done until his second round of calls. He arranges rendezvous points, doesn’t cloak himself in guilt with any of the phrases he chooses to use, and he hopes they keep things as official as possible when he arrives.

Eleanor stays in that spot until Zayn is finished, and when he fails to please her by acknowledging her presence, she takes a seat. “Liam told me what you said, you know?”

“Good for Liam.”

Zayn can pride himself in the lack of emotion he shows, mostly for her benefit, maybe even for Liam’s. Johnny Garcia is next on his list for a call, Zayn must have skipped over him on his first run, he tries to amend that, but his fingers don’t cooperate fast enough to retrieve his phone from Eleanor’s snatching hands. “I’m trying to talk to you.”

Zayn nods, pulls forward his corded phone, dials the number there more for dramatic effect than actual use. He knows Johnny won’t pick up an unknown number. Eleanor must know, too, because she waits, sits there and lets Zayn hang up the phone with false pride. His back welcomes the support of his chair, and Zayn sighs. “I’m trying to ignore you, but you’re making it difficult.”

“You can go ahead and cut the surgical act, there’s no need to be precise with me.” She’s hard on him, levels Zayn with a look that makes him shift and he feels like he’s about to be penalized for his behavior by someone who has no fucking right to tell him what to do. “It’s not in my plans to yell at you, just to tell you that you’re a dick. You know, really hurt him.”

Zayn’s filter is disabled, disallowing him to think before he says, “He hurt himself.”

He misses Liam, wonders how he’s doing—scratch that. Zayn knows how Liam is doing, has a running tab of people watching out for him—just little piss-boys that don’t require much more payment than that of Zayn’s attention—and he’s aware that Liam is at home now. Zayn thinks he probably appreciates that reject television heaps more now, but he hasn’t had a chance to ask.

It’s not certain that Liam won’t pick up his phone calls, because Zayn hasn’t dialed his number. Well, he has. A million times over, hovering over _call_ for long moments at a time before distracting himself with other things. Topics. People.

Zayn’s been living out of a hotel for the better part of two weeks, dodging calls from Perrie and only taking orders from Simon through the capable middle-man skills of Louis. Eleanor’s the only one to give him shit about it, and there’s a phantom stick in his side that he likes to think is Liam, telling him to go home. And he would, Liam. He would put Zayn in his proper place if he were speaking to him.

“Your moping is bringing the whole place down, and I’m not having it.” She avoids the subject—one she brought up, Zayn might interject—and only gives Zayn his cell phone back when he looks at her for longer than ten seconds. She holds it out, waves it back out of his grasp for a second to whisper sentimental bullshit at him. “Go talk to Liam, yeah? His toes are almost at full wiggling capacity, and Simon’s going to send him out as soon as his face doesn’t look like he got ran over by a truck.”

Zayn takes his phone and sits on a pile of unspoken aggravation when Simon’s name surfaces in their conversation. “That must be really inconvenient for Dad, don’t you think? Maybe he’ll—”

“That smart mouth is the same thing you grilled Liam for, so keep it shut.”

Zayn nods; Eleanor is right, Zayn doesn’t get to be mad. He gets to be compliant—even if it’s from a distance. But somewhere over the course of his life, Zayn has given up the right to be outwardly angry at actions made by his superior. Father or not, that’s the role Simon filled—boss.

Zayn just had to remind himself that he was programmed to follow orders, it’s what he wanted. Obey until you’re in the position to give commands; his motto, the spirit he’s conducted business with. And attitude that has yet to land him in critical condition. “You’re right, I apologize. Look, I have a long list of things I need to—”

“There is not a limit of things I want to say to you right now, but I don’t have the time. As you so pointedly pointed out, I have a job to do.” Eleanor’s lips purse, and Zayn can honestly say that it’s not wrong of him to dislike what it does to his insides to see her as serious as she is. Hands arrive at her hips in time to make Zayn shrink back into his seat in just the slightest, not fully okay with cowering. The corners of her lips turn up and Zayn finds himself scowling. “That means you get to be the one to take Liam his soup.”

That’s one thing Zayn desperately wants to do, would love to take Liam soup. Salad. Maybe breadsticks, he doesn’t care. But as detrimental as it was to fucking hoof it over to Liam’s to check his stitches and forcefully bend his toes just to make sure he wasn’t fucking faking an injury—it was just as important to keep his distance.

He taps the top of his desk, hand reeling back cold at the chill of the glass. Zayn’s unsure why he has a glass desktop other than its appealing aesthetics, it did a number on his skin. “No can do, like I said—”

“Oh, I know what you said. You’ve been saying a lot of shit that doesn’t add up,” she goes on, undeterred by Zayn rolling his eyes. Nosy, she was always nosy. No one knew how to keep Zayn’s affairs out of their hands, no one. “When you’re not busy saying abso-fucking-lutely _nothing._ And if I’m being frank—”

“Can you think of a time when you aren’t?”

“It’s pretty old, _very_ old.” Her bite subsides long enough for her to look at Zayn with pity, another thing that causes him to shift. Eleanor heaves a sigh, and it’s one of the first times in weeks that Zayn has taken notice of the tiredness staring back at him. “It’s been a while, and I haven’t said anything to either one of you for making my life miserable with all of your moping.”

Zayn lingers on Liam feeling as bad as he does, as out of place with out Zayn at his side and he feels with Liam off somewhere harboring his injuries. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

Zayn wants to go back and take his apology away from Eleanor’s ears, he’s wanted to do that quite a few times lately, recant his words and phrases and any other stupid thing he’s done.

“How about this, hmm?” Eleanor’s hand damn near bounces off his desk, and fuck, he wouldn’t have bothered to notice the assorted rings on her fingers if they hadn’t done a number on the glass. He moves back, the wheels of his seat scooting him away from her because it’s not a pleasant sight, to see her angry and upset, hair wild and eyes unrelenting. “How about you do us both a favor and not talk until I’m finished? Liam got busted, so I get that you’re hurting, too. I also get that you thought it would be a bright idea to relay your trust issues all over him because you thought he’d be too busy licking his wounds to find out your dad is really as fucked up as everyone thinks he is.”

“You can’t just say that, Eleanor.”

The lift of her face—eyebrow, lip, and nose—it silences him; he’s scared that she may have a point. “Remember what I said about not talking?”

“You do know that I’m your boss—”

“And I also know I’m your friend. There isn’t anything good that’s going to come from you shutting yourself off from the rest of us and treating me like an employee.” Eleanor’s glare suggests that she’s done taking his bullshit. “Not when I’m the only person willing to tell you that you’re being a jerk.” She hums, and Zayn watches her roll her eyes, recalling a thought. “Besides Nan, who _only_ isn’t kicking your ass because you won’t pick up her phone calls.”

Zayn pulls his lip into his mouth and swears. “Fuck, yeah. I missed Sunday dinner.”

“Twice,” Eleanor says, and Zayn should have seen that coming—her all knowing attitude. “Liam’s gonna steal your spot as the favorite if you don’t make a stop on Sunday to fill your fucking mouth with whatever bullshit Italian meal she’s making you stomach.”

The air doesn’t have as much tension, whatever stigma was there—it’s not gone, but it’s not as heavy. They have an understanding, and as much as Zayn hates to cave, he’s more than sure that he’s going to be taking soup to Liam’s apartment some time before his collections. A small window for opportunity that way.

Zayn laughs because it feels appropriate. “Someone sounds bitter about not being invited, I’ll be sure to exchange your invite for Niall’s next Sunday. He’s scheduled for a visit around,” Zayn checks the time on his phone, frowning at the time that has passed, “now, actually. I’ll break the news to him before he leaves.”

It goes unspoken that she accepts, a nod between the two of them before Eleanor questions him, hands drumming the glass with her hip cocked enough to lean against Zayn’s desk. “Why is Niall coming over? Did you spill chai tea on my laptop again?”

Zayn’s face drops, unimpressed. “Fuck you, no. There’s a Trojan, installed on your laptop as soon as I reconnected the router. I’m thinking it’s the RS again, trying to sneak actual pay records. Niall’s supposed to de-bug everything after trying to see what they snaked. Kid’s smart, hopefully he’ll be able to tell me who’s on the other end of—cyberspace. Don’t laugh at me, I don’t know about this shit.”

Eleanor doesn’t look surprised and Zayn thinks that’s a testament to the amount of hassle laid thick by the assholes eagle-eyeing Zayn’s affairs. She smacks her lips and they both turn at the series of taps on the door to the main office. “Well I’ll leave you to at it, I’ve got auditions to run for the new show. Jenna Calavari’s nipples keep conveniently finding their way into guest’s mouths…”

“And? We all mess around with the dancers, Jenna especially.” Zayn moves her along with a swat of his hands when Niall knocks again, their conversation continuing through his open door. “I’ve had Jenna in my mouth, and not just—don’t flip me off, just chill out. That’s why we have backrooms, happy endings bring in a shit-load of money.”

“She’s not doing it in the rooms, she’s letting dudes hump her on the stage. Hands, mouth, everything.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

Niall walks in, Zayn can see Eleanor opening the door for him and pointing him in the direction of her laptop out of Zayn’s eyesight. She holds up a paper bag and points to the stack of documents piled at Liam’s wall desk. She’s courteous enough to not air Zayn’s dirty laundry in front of Niall, but she doesn’t leave until Zayn nods several times in promise.

When she rushes out, Zayn thinks it has more to do with her fear of Niall’s impending anger than her concern for dancer interviews. He’s really not gonna like being told his Sunday lunch spot has been given away. Zayn probably won’t tell him until after he’s fixed their computer.

**/////**

Zayn’s foot is tapping thirty minutes later, and Niall is hopping up from Eleanor’s chair. He’s taken the news of his retracted invite particularly well, only charged Zayn an extra twenty for his troubles on top of his regular bill—free drinks and three uncovered nights in the VP room. Niall has never been especially hard to placate.

He claps several times and lets his hands linger together, closing El’s computer and joining Zayn near the couch, tilting his frame against the door instead of finding a place to sit. Zayn extends a drink because he was brought up with manners, even though he has a long list of people to meet with and soup that needs carried out.

“It’s a government bug, typical. Needed internet connection to get it runnin’, just don’t know how it got there in the first place. Might want to see if Elah put any discs in lately, new software, summat like that.” All of Niall’s gibberish—as dumbed down as it is—flies over Zayn’s head, and all he comprehends is a need to make a mental note to discuss downloading strange shit with Eleanor.

Zayn nods, taking the remaining fingers of Bourbon in a single shot before speaking and typing out a text message simultaneously. “Okay, I’ll do that. Did they get anything, do you know?”

Louis replies to Zayn’s text, confirming his arrival, and Niall is unsurprisingly fast with finishing his drink. “They opened a lot o’ things, but nothing was taken or planted. Just a look bug, probably had mirrored programs here and there to distract from what they were lookin’ for. They could be tryin’ta pin ya with anything’ from fraud to laundering, even to kiddie porn. Anythin’ these days, you never know.”

Zayn is happy that Niall’s removed any and all harmful programs. He’s caught eyeing the small brown bag at the corner of the entertainment table and dammit if Niall doesn’t smile like he knows who and what it’s for. Zayn takes out his wallet and hands Niall the agreed-upon amount of cash and tabs out his signature on a few vouchers to get Niall in all the right places for the next passing days. He hands it over, if only to get Niall to stop dragging his eyes from Liam’s soup to Zayn’s warming face.

“Is there anything else I can get you while you’re here, Niall?”

Zayn doesn’t understand why everyone keeps looking at him like that— _why does everyone know his fucking business?_ Niall smiles and takes what he’s handed. He does take a moment to think, after that he’s remembering something and stopping Zayn from ushering him out, soup in hand. “Yeah, yeah. I do, actually. Ya want to sit down for a minute, or—”

“I’ve got some things to do today, so if it can wait…”

Niall’s not jumping through any hoops to speak to him, he shakes his head. “I was just goin’ta give you an update on some things ya had me look up earlier?”

“About?”

“Liam? And his folks?”

Zayn—fuck, he can’t believe he forgot about that. It was before, well, everything. So far back that Zayn’s not sure if he’s paid Niall. Not completely sure what he wanted him to find, just that he wanted it found before Liam stumbled upon anything that would get him hurt. Emotionally, not physically. Zayn wanted to know if Liam was going to be crying on his shoulder, not stumbling around in his apartment to find new Band-Aids.

“Did you find anything?” Zayn decides against it, no. It’s not his business. The damage is done, there isn’t any use in knowing what Niall’s unearthed—even with his fancy finger-work and talented technical cues—Liam’s already hurting, and Zayn’s doing fuck-all to help. A clean nose, that’s what he’s prefer to have. “You know, Niall—forget about it. I’ll pay you for whatever you’ve found, but I’d rather not know.”

“Nah, it was easy to look up. He’s not even the golden goose, ya know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Liam’s parents aren’t that interesting, middle class lad for a father—you probably know about that.” Niall checks over the slips of paper in his hands, inspects them closely and smiles at what he reads, speaking absently to Zayn while he visually pictures his future delights. “It’s actually a boring read, even with his mum going in and out of jail, it’s all small stuff in the end, like she wanted to be at the jailhouse, yeah? Then your mum comes in—cop’s wife, on record as vouchin’ to keep her out of the bin, and shit yeah, I’d look into that for free, mate.”

Zayn panics, screams because he wants to know. He doesn’t know what that means, what Niall is trying to say. And he freaks, yells internally because he _wants to know,_ can smell the scandal and he’s not supposed to be curious. _None of your business,_ he reminds himself. _You don’t care._

“Well, don’t.” Niall looks up at him and Zayn’s aware how crude that must have sounded—how abrupt. He struggles under the scrutiny, Zayn’s not—he doesn’t issue many apologies on his behalf. “There’s nothing there worth finding, that’s all I meant. Too much family drama with the one that I have.”

“More family, more problems, I get ya.” Niall smiles at him, and it’s so cheery—so _Niall._ Bright and open and large. It seems as though he means it and that makes Zayn breathe the slightest bit easier. “It’s better off that way, though. I’ve been doing newb jobs all month—tons of overtime ‘cause the pigs can’t do their goddamn jobs right. All falls on me, ya believe it?”

The paper bag crinkles at the tension applied to Zayn’s knuckles, reminding him he’s got deadlines, but the more Niall talks, the more Zayn wants to have him sit. So Zayn can pour drinks into him and see how much spills out. “You’re working for narcs,” Zayn asks, not accusingly, but just because he’s curious. A lot of things Niall is saying leave him that way, wondering. “No amount of pay is worth all the business you’d lose if anyone found out about that, Ni.”

Niall looks offended, and rightfully so, Zayn assumes. “Nah, but people want answers about this—this Toothpick Killer. Lousy name, if ya ask me, real lousy. But I mean, it’s interesting, gives me a rush. A lot of people want a lotta answers that the police aren’t givin’ ‘em.” It’s smarmy, the smile Zayn watches spread across Niall’s face, cheek to cheek. “Supply and demand, my friend.”

It doesn’t make very much sense, seeing as a majority of Niall’s clientele extends to company that Zayn keeps. Members of organized crime don’t associate with spree killers, there’s too much mess involved. The chances of being caught by linking one’s self to crimes that are being publicly put in the spotlight aren’t admirably slim.

“Why does anyone you know care about catching a serial killer?”

“There are cans that a lotta people in this city don’t want opened when the cops start turnin’ over rocks, Zayn.”

Zayn chews at the end of his lip and frowns in understanding, it makes enough sense if he thinks about it, which he wouldn’t like to spend too much time doing. At this rate he’s already going to have to stay in Liam’s apartment long enough to heat up his soup. “Alright then—”

“I’d figure Big Si would want me lookin’ into it, too. Was actually hopin’ to get a few bucks from him, too,” he elbows Zayn, like he’s going to know anything about what sort of payments Simon doles out. “But he never called, so I figured one of his guys was already on it, or maybe it was a coincidence.”

Zayn scratches his head, squints his eyes a little, even. “And why is Simon supposed to be interested in the Toothpaste Killer?”

“Toothpick.”

Zayn prompts him to keep speaking. “Answer the question.”

“Victims run some shops back over on the North side. A little lass that ran a bakery, too, but she was on the South. My brother Greg was a piss-boy back when Simon was still just runnin’ his errands.” Niall’s inherited genes for storytelling show, and Zayn would normally hand him a beer and be entertained, but he really doesn’t have the time. Niall senses Zayn’s impatience and tries to connect his thoughts better, faster. “Greg ran into your dad from time to time, they practically had the same route before Simon’s dad passed, ‘fore he became the boss of your family.”

“Are you nearing a point, Niall?”

“Everyone that’s been ganked so far used to be on Simon’s old route.” Niall shrugs, like he didn’t just play a heavy hand in helping turn Zayn’s world upside down, again. “I just thought he might be concerned, send some flowers or summat. Maybe he doesn’t know.” Niall nods to himself, happy with that answer. “Yeah, I bet that’s it.”

Zayn can sense the regret he’ll be feeling in a week’s time, but he goes with his gut and takes out his checkbook. “You know, now that you mention it, I will keep an ear on all of this, if you don’t mind adding me to your list.”

Niall looks excited at another buyer, he tucks his vouchers into his pants and grins at Zayn’s check book. “Ya know I charge three large.”

“I’ll pay you double.”

**/////**

He’s seen _her_ everywhere—decided his brain was running games, playing tricks on him because it wasn’t possible. Everywhere he’s looked, she’s there. Long red coat and sinister smile. Sometimes there’s no smile at all, no emotion. Zayn’s lost track of day and night—isn’t sure if he’s asleep or awake. It’s all so real, sometimes she’s close enough to touch.

But he blinks and sets himself on a trail to touch her. Wrap his hands in her hair and pull, get the material of her jacket underneath his fingertips so he’ll have something to apply to his restless nights, but she’s entirely too fast. And Zayn has had enough. He’s experienced as many empty handfuls as he’s going to in this lifetime.

It’s not worth being bothered by anymore; they’re dreams. Nightmares that Zayn sees when he’s awake.

Without Liam there to bat her away, banish her with stupid kisses and securing hands that make Zayn roll his eyes and clench his heart in the same breath—she’ll stay there as a figment of his imagination. A horrible one, but still imaginary. Still gone when Zayn reaches out.

Zayn sees her again, this time in front of Liam’s apartment. She’s there when he looks up and gone when he reaches for his waist. The car makes a stop and Zayn reaches blindly to control the papers in his briefcase from spilling along the floor board. He should have kept his hand on them, Zayn isn’t this careless. Louis is looking at Zayn in the rearview mirror, his eyes squinting at the sun in the background, and Zayn can see misplaced worry there.

He’s getting tired of those looks, of that pity. Frustrated, Zayn speaks tersely with Louis while making sure his papers are in order. “You want to find another job? Or you want to knock off the crap?”

“Are you absolutely sure you want to go in there?” Louis does well not to answer Zayn’s questions with anything other than a shift in gears. The car is in park and Zayn is reaching for the handle before Louis can lay anything else on him. There’s already an uncomfortable layer of guilt and nervousness draped across his shoulders, he’s not sure there’s room for much else. But him exiting the vehicle doesn’t stop his old friend from electronically rolling down the window. “It’s not too late for me to run Liam’s soup upstairs myself.”

“Stop trying to get out of doing my collections and do what I asked you, Louis.”

The abrasiveness of his tone is overshadowed by the slick smile of his mouth. Zayn already has Eleanor picking his bones for fresh meat, he doesn’t need to start a fight with Louis in the same day. There’s a surging of teenagers that rush from Liam’s building, and the noise they carry with them is loud enough for Zayn to ignore Louis’ upcoming protests. “I’m not an errand boy, I’m a driver.”

“There’s a bonus in it for you,” he calls, hands full. “Make sure you check Joey Lucia’s bag twice, he packs light!”

Zayn’s buzzing himself into Liam’s building and kicking the rusted door-stop with his foot while Louis makes his way around the group of misguided young adults who use their free time to congregate in strange places, like fucking sidewalks in the middle of the day, more paraphernalia than sense among them. Zayn will never, ever be sorry that he was selective in high school.

Selective meaning holed up in sheds and basements with his father and uncles, the lot of them degrading the dignity of other human beings for personal gain. He chokes on his way up the stairs, stuttering over the memories of warm and cold blood, heavy hands and even heavier weapons. Ones used to pry trivial words from pitiful lips. Zayn shakes himself and keeps one foot in front of the other, shades of yellow dispelling his thoughts as the cracks in the exterior give way to harsh light crackling into his peripherals. That’s all it takes to expel the bile at the back of his throat, just some light.

It’s over now, he’s in a position to give orders instead of take them. There’s no need for him to take people’s life away from them—rip them apart with his bare hands. It’s what becoming a boss means, and—well Zayn hates himself that much more for not missing it. He’s supposed to miss it.

He’s supposed to do a lot of things.

Being here isn’t one of them, wasn’t part of his plan. Zayn looks at Liam’s door until it mocks him, cracked paint and dented plastic—they laugh at Zayn with their dull surfaces and blemished exteriors. They’re not perfect, but they’re still— _it’s a fucking door,_ Zayn thinks to himself, _stop giving it existential meaning._

Zayn is comparing his life to that of a door and he’s become pathetic in all the time he’s been standing here. He knocks.

It’s amusing, how much Liam has to move—hobble around—on the other side of the door. Zayn shouldn’t be laughing, and he does have the decency to want to cover his mouth, but he’s got a leather brief in one hand and a stupid bag of food in the other, so it does him no good because Liam’s opening the door and shutting it immediately afterwards.

Zayn’s loafers are going to be the losers at the end of this visit, earning themselves another scuff when Zayn kicks at the door. He nudges it with his knee after deciding getting Liam to let him into his apartment isn’t worth the dents he’s going to get at the ends of his shoes. “Come on, open up! I have food, alright? ’S good food,” he lies, because Zayn doesn’t know where the hell Eleanor got this food or what it tastes like, just knows that it smelled good on the car ride over. “You have to eat something, shithead.”

The door is left open, and by the time Zayn takes the hint and nudges it with his hip, Liam is halfway back to his bed, gait disrupted by the cast around his foot—Zayn didn’t know his foot as that bad, shit. And he does giggle, can’t fucking help it with the way Liam flops into bed without abandon, elbows breaking his fall while he favors his knuckles.

“Don’t fucking laugh at me.”

Zayn makes a space for Liam’s soup on his kitchen counter, moves over the pile of dishes sitting there. Obviously Liam is fully out of commission because the place looks even shittier than usual. “That’s a dollar for the swear jar.”

“Seriously, Zayn, just fuck off.” Liam is more mobile while he’s sitting down, is able to sit himself up on the bed and adjust the volume of the television that Zayn didn’t fucking buy him to drown out whatever Zayn might say.

He looks everywhere but right at Liam. At the blue of his cast making it’s way out from under Liam’s unfilled duvet cover, and the yellow that’s burning into orange and gold on the uncarpeted floor of his apartment. Zayn even listens, turns his fingers into drumsticks to the opening credits of a show Liam’s using to force Zayn out of his apartment.

It damn near works, Zayn hates nothing more than American reality television.

“Are you hungry now,” he asks in favor of letting Liam soak his brain with garbage. “Your microwave is shitty, but I can heat it up in a pan—”

“What are you doing here?” Liam sounds exhausted but Zayn doesn’t see anything that’s too extraneous. He hasn’t left the apartment, that Zayn knows of, but maybe it’s a different kind of tired. Yeah, that’s it.

He scratches at his head, Zayn does, until finally he has to look at Liam. “I came by to drop this off, you want it heated up or not?”

His bruises have yellowed, no longer dark and hard and painful enough to make Zayn want to lodge his fists through the drywall above Liam’s headboard. Liam’s lips are torn to shit, but it has nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with the nerves Zayn’s presence is putting in his belly. Zayn notices the teeth indentions embedded in Liam’s lip from the mirror across the room. Zayn wants to sit down, right there where Liam’s sheets end, and he’d like to hold him.

Just to, uh—fuck it. Zayn just wants to hold him, that’s it.

“You can leave the soup on the counter, but you can take that dreadful stack of work with you.” Zayn catches the twitch of a smile before it flickers away, beautiful. Liam’s bandaged up, foot propped in bed and Zayn just—he’s the best thing Zayn’s seen all week. Zayn nods his head, he’s going to heat this up, yeah. “Don’t start moving around the kitchen, I’m serious, Zayn. Leave, okay? There’s nothing here for you.”

“You’re here.”

Liam scoffs and it hurts, puts a chink in Zayn’s armor, but it’s nothing he doesn’t deserve. He sheds his overcoat, then his over shirt, not for seduction tactics or anything scathing, but because Zayn doesn’t need a film of grease and dish soap on his clothes. And it’s not like he’s naked, he’s got an actual undershirt on. One that’s not in any danger of being ruined, and if it is, he doesn’t care. Zayn busies himself in the kitchen, making a fantastic effort not to externally cringe at the dishes he has to move around in order to get to the oven.

It’s easier than the alternative, which is Liam hating him being here. Hating him. Zayn swallows and rubs his hands together to keep them from shaking.

“Since when does that mean anything to you?” But apparently Liam’s not going to make this easy.

“That’s not fair,” he hums, keeping his hips away from the stove door and trying not to let Liam’s words be the things that burn him. Liam grunts behind him and Zayn turns in a panic to see him straining to move himself to the end of the bed without dragging his knuckles across the bed. “Whoa, hey sit down. I’ve got this, let me just make you some fucking soup and then I’ll leave.”

Zayn never wants to leave, not while Liam is holed up here. Liam does stop moving, but he’s still at the end of the bed, that heavy blue cast thumping the floor unpleasantly to remind Zayn that Liam isn’t okay. As if he needs another reminder. Liam’s knuckles don’t stop him from combing his fingers through his hair—it’s greasy, like he hasn’t washed it in a few days—and that, shit, that makes Zayn sadder than it should.

“I know why you said what you did,” it’s a stone in Zayn’s direction that he was looking to avoid. Zayn doesn’t respond because he’s not fishing for anything else that’s going to distract him from his return attempt to start the gas on the stove. He’s pouring soup in silence before Liam speaks again. “So you want to be chatty, as long as we don’t talk about how you left me in the hospital. Not before you threw my own parents in my face, real classy of you—”

“You gonna sit there and bitch all night, because I can leave if that’s the case.” He doesn’t even mean to say it, it just comes out. Zayn’s got really fucked up defense mechanisms. “I’ve got a broad to go home to if I want to hear that.”

“Kind of hard to bitch when she doesn’t even know where you are.”

Zayn’s head cranes around to look at the man across the room, he doesn’t like how smug Liam sounds. “Excuse me?”

Liam’s eyes say it all—tell Zayn that he doesn’t need to hear an apology, that maybe he just wants Zayn to sit down with him. And they can sit in one spot, not move at all. Exist without Liam’s anger or Zayn’s false sense of protection. Because they’re the only ones that can take care of each other, that’s never going to change. But Zayn’s done a shitty job lately, and that’s a little hard to swallow so he lets Liam’s eyes bore into his, sort the truth and the lies while he tries not to overheat this damn soup.

Liam’s softer when he talks this time, the edge in his voice gone—Zayn’s not sure how that makes him feel, why it lifts him up instead of making him feel weak. “Perrie came by looking for you, and Simon—”

“Dad.”

“ _Simon,_ ” he restates, smiling at Zayn’s scowl—fuck, he’s attractive, yeah? Big smile and crinkled eyes. “He’s been asking about you when he calls. I know you’ve been squatting at a hotel since—”

“Since I tore you a new asshole and left you with my dad? The person responsible for all of this—this shit?” He doesn’t need Liam to drag down the zipper of Zayn’s veins, he’s already bleeding out right there, watching Liam sit still and alone and broken. He coughs out silent apologies and scratches his scalp with torn nails. “You want me to hate him—I want to hate him, but he’s my dad. But you’re—you’re you. That means something to me, don’t think that it doesn’t. This isn’t easy.”

Liam’s shoulders fall back and he speaks with false confidence, an act that Zayn’s always seen right through. No amount of bravado will keep away the scared eyes and heavy heart. He can see it pumping through Liam’s chest in heavy breaths and clenching fists. “When has it ever been easy? That doesn’t mean you get to go around _saying_ things to me. You may be tough as nails, heartless, whatever; but that’s not me. _I’m sorry_ isn’t going to fix everything one day, Zayn. One day _I’m sorry_ is just going to stop working.”

Zayn turns his back to Liam, not envying the prospect of his eyes welling where anyone can see, least of all _him_. Zayn may be heartless, and Simon may have made him hard, but if anyone’s responsible for the fingerprint bruises around Zayn’s heart, it’s Liam. “Will it work now?”

The silence tells Zayn all he needs to know, mostly because Liam’s never been shy to speaking what’s on his mind. The rage he has for everything he thinks is responsible for Zayn being callous towards life—it cripples him when they’re at each other’s necks, turns him into a monster that Zayn can’t control. And that’s even scarier, not his newly found aggravation with Simon, but the lack of a handle Zayn has on it. So he needs to know if he’s going to spend the rest of the night dodging shoddy snark while he forces food down Liam’s throat, or if Zayn should leave now.  

His feet won’t let him leave, not easily.

But Zayn doesn’t think they can do this right now—cut one another down at the knees until one of them is irreparably broken. Zayn doesn’t think they can come back from that, not completely. And that’s really the worst thing that could happen to the two of them. They’re the only ones capable of wrecking whatever this is.

Steam pours into the air, thick and heavy and so much like everything else that’s hanging in this apartment. Liam’s soup is warm enough for him to eat without turning his stomach or making him wince as it slides down his throat. Zayn manages to slosh potatoes and carrots and squash in a bowl without chancing another look at Liam.

“Will what work for now?” Liam talks to Zayn with a shake in his voice.

“An apology.” The pain is very manageable, doesn’t make Zayn as queasy if he leans into it. “Will an apology work for now? This time—all I need is this time.”

His shoulders surge with a cough, and Zayn looks back to see the light cutting slices along the planes of Liam’s face via the curtains that interrupt the stream of the sun. There’s a thin film of hesitation in his eyes but when Zayn looks past that—stares at Liam as openly as possible because that’s how he knows to say sorry—the fear and the love shines through. Zayn’s never seen Liam scared of this, them, but he is now and that scares Zayn, too.

But Zayn has been backed in corners far more narrow than this. He swings through by cutting the distance between his hands and Liam’s face in two, shelving the bowl of broth on the bedside table and taking the final hit by framing Liam’s yellowed face with the berth of his hands. Liam helps him, knuckles up and swings beside Zayn, fingers pulling him down by the susceptible collar of Zayn’s shirt. “Is this you saying that you won’t screw up again, because I know that’s—that’s not true.”

The fan of breath that falls across Liam’s face is a buffer, keeping them separated from the captor of prying eyes and hands for mere seconds while they recharge with meeting eyes and quirking lips. Zayn’s hair must tickle Liam when he shakes his head, because he struggles just a bit at the end of the bed, twitching slightly while Zayn stands above him, hunched and hurting and screaming out apologies with soft strokes of his thumb across the faded smatterings left behind by clenched fists and steel cusps of a boot.

“I’ll never hurt you again on purpose,” and that’s his last fighting swing, the one Zayn hopes holds out. Liam nods and Zayn thinks they won this round, he does a victory dance by rolling Liam’s bitten lip into his mouth and sucking on it, pulling his jaw down far enough with the ends of his fingers to open Liam to Zayn’s request for forgiveness. “I promise.”

They stay like that, tired and excited, Liam’s hands relentless and Zayn’s hovering gently. Whenever he opens his eyes to look at Liam, the marks on his body prick Zayn like broken shards of glass. So he keeps them shut for as long as he can. The fire-blown surface of Liam’s skin is perfect like this, all the evidence of bumps and bruises gone and Zayn can appreciate Liam for what he is. Perfection stretched out over a thumping heart and strong bones.

Liam tires of Zayn’s light hands and pushes for more, biting hard on Zayn’s mouth when his hands stay soft in Liam’s hair, never grabbing harder because he really is scared Liam will break. It’s a turn around, because Zayn is usually the altered one—fucked up by flames and terrors and now Liam is here—it’s odd in the way that makes Zayn’s throat constrict and his stomach twist. Liam’s torn knuckles don’t seem to hinder his ability to shove Zayn away after his third attempt to lure Zayn into something rough and meaningless.

“You can screw off if you’re gonna treat me like a porcelain doll.” Liam slides back into his spot, it takes him some time and Zayn spends all of those seconds absorbing as much of Liam as he can, his absence over the last few days stinging more now that it’s had a chance to sink in. He stops himself from stepping forward to help when Liam cups his bowl of soup and sloshes broth over the rim onto the exposed lines of his stomach. “I’ve got soup to eat, so if we’re not going to, uh, to— _do stuff_ —then go away. Leave me with my mushy carrots.”

The wedge of nerves and regret dislodges with one look at Liam’s smile. It’s not as broad as it usually is, but it’s honest, and Zayn appreciates that. He doesn’t think they can spread themselves out among another bed of lies. Zayn has to scoff, though. Leave it to Liam to make Zayn feel bad for not wanting to cause any physical pain by laying it on too thick. “Excuse me for not wanting you to bust your stitches open when you make your goddamn O face.”

“I can’t cum, already tried it,” Liam looks embarrassed and Zayn eats it up, follows the beaconed trail of red falling down Liam’s chest. Zayn wants to rub away the lines in between his eyes with a finger, maybe kiss Liam’s small frown away. “My toes curl up and it hurts like a—it really hurts.”

The guilt that’s soaking into his bones dissolves for a second while bubbles of laughter filter their way out of his throat. “You can’t get yourself off because your toes are still fucked up? That’s pathetic, man.”

“All I wanted was to lay down, kiss a little. Practically a stranger around here, you know.”

Zayn’s shoulder lifts, he sinks to the end of the bed, only thinking for a second about what kind of dust will have the chance to settle on his trousers. It’s worth it to watch Liam’s lips configure into a smile with a plastic spoon in his mouth. Ridiculous lips, Liam has them. They make Zayn want to do things that he doesn’t have time for, but he’s never minded. Because the cost of whatever dignity Zayn may lose at being weak for a warm mouth doesn’t outweigh the benefits of the high he gets from putting his lips against Liam’s.

“I can do that,” he supplies, kicking off his shoes and trying not to worry about the state they’ll be in under Liam’s messy bed for the time Zayn stays here. Forever, he should be here forever. Zayn wonders what the damage of that would be, to stay at Liam’s side until they’re nothing. And really, that’s exactly what they are when they aren’t together, obsolete. Zayn covers them up and wishes he would have taken his pants off before sliding in beside him, the heat from Liam’s bare legs makes Zayn want more things than he could ever ask for. “C’mere, would you? I know you have a boner for being the big spoon, but there was a time when you did fit beside me.”

Liam isn’t impressed with Zayn’s sarcasm, but he does move right by his side, swings his leg across Zayn’s and rubs their ankles together. The light from the TV mixed with the orange shadows darting in from the window make Liam look like something Zayn has seen in a movie. One of those romantic comedies, where the lighting is meant to make you fall in love. Only their lives are anything but romantic, much less funny. And Zayn’s pretty sure he’s been in love with Liam before the opening credits even began.

“You could stay here with me, I have a TV now, so you can’t give me any bullshit excuses about missing episodes of Mad Men. Got cable, just in case you wanted to come around.”

“I have Cabo next week, or I would.”

“Imports?” Liam seems disappointed.

“Imports.”

They’re supposed to be kissing, but Zayn likes it like this, Liam sunken into his side with Zayn’s arm around him. He’s sipping soup and it smells terrible now. Zayn hates soup. But he loves Liam, he supposes that’s why he puts up with it. There isn’t any other place he fancies being right now. When Liam’s put away his bowl and Zayn’s turned up the television to cancel out the comfortable silence they dwell in, he rests his chin on top of Liam’s skull. They lay together because that’s all that they want. That’s all Zayn will ever want.

But Louis calls, then honks. And before Zayn can make it out of bed while Liam’s eyes are still closed, he’s knocking on the door. It prickles the insides of his heart, poking holes through his veins that want to bleed on the floor. The flow is bandaged by the knowledge that Liam is here and safe and healing. 

Then he sees it.

A coat, misshapen and strewn across the floor by the entryway, just short of Liam’s rusted coat rack. It’s long and sophisticated. And red.  Questions are spilling out of his mouth before he can screw it shut. “What’s that?”

Liam’s awake, eyes opening at Louis’ insistent knocking. They open wider when Liam questions him, and he’s back in that corner again trying to fight his way out, rushed their by Liam’s lying eyes. Lying, to Zayn. “It’s just a jacket.”

“Didn’t take you for the cross-dressing type.”

“I’m not cheating on you, she’s a friend. You’d like her, you have a lot in common. She’s been helping me look into—”

Zayn shakes his head. But the back and forth doesn’t make him dizzy enough to shake the secrets from his brain, and it’s all stacking up again. He swallows hard enough to pummel away the threat of tears crashing down on him in a sick and whipping wave. “Let’s just rewind,” Zayn suggests, heart unbearably heavy. “Leave this behind us and pretend that the last thing I did was hold you. I want to remember that.”

And he will, it’s not like Zayn could forget the one time Liam shrunk down small enough for Zayn to wrap both arms around him. He shakes again, but this time it’s the doorknob that twists one way and then another. Liam only makes a request when Zayn’s got the door open a sliver. “Come back tomorrow?”

“I think I’ll go to Cabo early.”  

“We still fit together, Zayn.” Liam’s voice shakes. They’re all shaking. Shaking in fear. Anger. Never in triumph. Why can’t they win, just this once? Life fights dirty, Zayn knows that. It still doesn’t stop him from punching clean, never hitting below the belt because he never wants to appear distorted in Liam’s eyes. Zayn won’t give Liam another reason to look down on him. “It’s different, but we’re not kids. I’m not some stupid kid anymore, but I—we do, we still fit together. That’ll never change.”

Zayn takes another look at the coat. _Red._ He nods his head just enough for Liam to see and makes his way out, shouldering past Louis and hoping he can’t see how weak Liam makes him.

Zayn hopes it never changes, them. Liam and Zayn always need to be an us, that’s Zayn’s one condition to keep breathing. No use to fill his lungs with air if there’s nothing for him to hold onto, to tether him down so he does float away.

It can’t ever change.

But Zayn thinks that something will, and it’ll tear them apart anyway. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now. Or ever.

**/////**

Tropical breezes and tanned skin isn’t enough to distract Zayn from Liam. He isn’t sure how he managed before—even tries to pick smoking back up, but it makes him sick because all he can hear is Liam’s nagging voice rattling inside the walls of his head—but he tries desperately to remember.

It’s a powdered holiday, Zayn’s nose burns as bad as his head does. Everything spins, and he doesn’t have a strong enough grip on reality to string anything together sans for lines of coke. Zayn’s dreams can’t haunt him because he doesn’t sleep. Louis is his rock, holds Zayn together with strings of promises and a handful of empty threats.

Zayn’s not nearly as good with words as Liam is, and he knows he could have haggled Frank Romero and his partners for a better deal on handguns and stolen Mazda’s.

Zayn spends his time waiting, hiding under platforms of missed calls and things that he knows are wrong, until finally someone’s letting the other shoe fall from such a distance that it flattens him into a panic-filled rage.

“Liam’s missing.”

Liam’s a runner, not a victim. Zayn doesn’t believe it but his eyes still bug out, he still clutches the end of a desk and screams back into the phone. “Eleanor, what do you mean he’s missing? Why are you calling me—what do you—he’s missing? Are you sure.”

“No one knows, just me. I’m the only one who’s been checking on him.”

That hurts more than hearing that Liam left him. And he did leave him, while Zayn was gone because—fuck, Zayn doesn’t know why he left, only that he did. “And you know he fucking left because?”

Eleanor softens, Zayn can practically hear it and that makes Zayn want to bloody his knuckles on something. He doesn’t know what, just something. “He didn’t leave you, Zayn. Someone—she took him, I think. I think it was  girl.”

“Who took him, Eleanor. Did you see them? Tell me,” Zayn rips his fingers through his hair, and he doesn’t register anything but he knows Louis is trying to rein him in. There are crashes, breaking glasses and ripping canvases. Zayn only knows that it’s him when he opens his eyes again and the evidence of purple knuckles and cut skin stare back at him. “Who was it, tell me who it was.”

“Zayn, I don’t think—”

“What the fuck did she look like, El! Don’t—don’t patronize me! Tell me!”

He knows what’s coming, before she even speaks Zayn knows what she’s going to say.

“That’s the thing, Zayn—”

Zayn’s teeth grit, _hurry,_ he thinks. _Hurry, hurry, hurry._ “What did she fucking look like?!”

“She looked like you.”

 


	4. i can see behind the curtain

Liam isn’t missing, and although Zayn’s talked to him, he doesn’t know where he’s at. No, no, missing is the wrong term—it implies that Liam is lost. That he’s unable to find his way home. There are no tied hands or desperate ransoms, Liam is plainly gone. Away from Zayn, with people that Zayn only hears in the background when Liam makes his calls.

Calls made days after Zayn’s nosed every corner, delved himself into a drunken stupor at the end of each fruitless day. Hours after his lungs are a hair more hollow than his eyes—eyes that haven’t left Liam’s front door. _He’s gonna come home, Liam will come home._ And when the call finally comes, it all clicks for Zayn—he can _feel_ Liam. Through the end of his receiver, labored breaths and quick apologies, and he hangs up ten seconds later.

Gone again after a short return.

It’s only been three days, Zayn has to say _only_ with baited breath and a heavy chest, but still, three days and Liam’s ringing him. Officially this time, breathing into Zayn’s ear for longer than fifteen seconds. _Where are you_ , he remembers saying. _Where did you go?_ But Liam won’t tell him. Liam only tells Zayn that he loves him and that he needs to go, doesn’t say when he’ll be home.

Beside Zayn, _home._

That drives Zayn crazy, crazier than the reduction of their relationship to small, tinny speakers. Where Liam sounds like shit, and he keeps asking Zayn for things. Zayn can’t find the courage to keep talking or the strength to just hang up, so he lets the phone fall. He finds himself crawling into Eleanor’s bed—she’s sworn to secrecy, never to breathe a word of Liam’s absence—and her pillows absorb whatever sadness Liam creates by leaving Zayn for secrets and tragedy and ghosts.

“You can’t keep going on like this,” she shouts when a week has passed, and Zayn scrapes through life on slick skates, cutting through frozen water and counting on his knees to remember how to hold him up. His toes are cold and his lips are blue, but he’s breaking through the frigid air of skeptical questions and second glances with quick-paced arms and an unmoving face. “You look dead, Zayn. Make him tell you where he is, just a location. I’ll go get him for you.”

He assumes Eleanor’s concerned with the sockets of his eyes—a sorry place holder for red and heavily-veined orbs that Zayn has to fight to keep open. In the end, though, she’s told to mind her own fucking business and keep her mouth shut.

“I need you to buy me some time.” Liam sounds desperate, and that’s paradoxical, considering Zayn’s foot is currently tapping holes the carpet lining his floor just by having this conversation. “Tell Simon I’m—uh, on location.”

“On location?” Zayn tries not to let his mind warp around Liam’s voice. His subconscious seems to think that if Zayn records every hearable part of Liam that he can crack his skull open later and pull them out should anything ever get lost in there. “Are you filming a fucking movie? No way is he buying that.”

“Please?”

Zayn doesn’t have to look very hard to see the cracks in Liam’s voice, they lap over, run down Zayn’s neck until Zayn doesn’t have to look very hard to see the cracks in himself either. The skinny tie around his neck is a testament to his own jumbled nerves—a tacky and thoughtless choice that he fingers for the rest of the day—and Zayn traces it now with a nervous tick that fails to distract him from his wet cheeks.

“Fine,” he sighs, the weight of Liam’s absence still there after he breathes in and out—it never fucking goes away. “But if he figures it out and comes after—”

“He won’t,” but even Liam doesn’t sound sure. And that’s not settling for either of them, so it doesn’t surprise Zayn in the least when Liam tries again, voice stronger and much more convincing this time. “He won’t.”

But the damage is done, they both know which answer corners the most merit. Zayn’s never been afraid to die, but he’s scared now. A traitor, Zayn imagines that’s what he is. Granted he hasn’t got the slightest idea where Liam has gone or what he’s being fed into his overeager ears, Zayn still should have told Simon. They should have had words the second Liam began rooting around in affairs that didn’t just hold secrets of his.

They would all be swept away in the chemical spill of newly discovered tragedy.

Liam, Simon, _and_ Zayn.

Zayn didn’t give any of them a surviving chance by keeping his mouth shut.

It’ll all be his fault.

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

The thinness of Zayn’s vocal cords don’t hold the ability to yell. Zayn’s done all the screaming his body will allow him to—up at the sky, into a pillow, at pictures of what he thought were happy memories. Yelling isn’t in his cards, Zayn is lucky that he can still talk. Or maybe he’s not, maybe saying nothing at all would be better than dragging his feet over hot coals and producing more material to scream over—Liam’s words and Zayn’s volleys stuck rattling inside his head. “I’m tired, Liam. I don’t want to yell at you, I want you to come home.”

“I miss you, Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t scoff, but he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t welcome the kindness intended in Liam’s words. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t?”

“You can’t miss someone if they’re right beside you.”

“I’m not so sure that’s entirely true,” he says, and it’s so soft that Zayn barely reaches out in time to catch the spiked comfort of Liam’s reply.

Zayn isn’t sure that’s right, either, though—the whole not being able to miss someone as long as you’re with them. As long as you don’t leave. He thinks he might have missed Liam long before he vanished into thin air.

Either way, it’s the perfect time to hang up, so Zayn does.

**/////**

Zayn’s can’t say his mind’s eye doesn’t graze over the irony of him calling Simon while he sits in his childhood bedroom. Simon’s just in the other wing, most likely tucked into a meeting of the minds with Gary Pagani and Michael Tamberello, unaware of Zayn’s presence amongst the people mulling through the rest of the estate. Suits are being delivered to Zayn’s room, racks that he’ll have to sort through when his nail beds aren’t bare from anxiousness.

They’re measured to his liking, Italian cuts and brogues that won’t grace another shelf until the next season has a chance to come around. Zayn looks, lets his eyes roam over every detail, and he laughs harshly. To think these were things he concerned himself with—style and fashion and money—when none of it really mattered.

He finds himself questioning Liam’s motives, if this is how he ever felt when looking at things of value; bare.

Liam’s nonchalance for the priorities of Zayn’s life weren’t out of ignorance, but bliss. Bliss at caring about other things, or maybe the burden of a heart saddled with other things, other things to hold Liam’s affections and desires. Zayn has that now, the want for nothing more but something else.

“Zayn, she’s asking you a question.” Perrie’s accent breaks into his thoughts and Zayn’s reopened to his reality.

His phone is still in his hand, and Simon’s number is looking back at him, baiting Zayn to press call. Flurries of people are around him, Perrie included. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, looking up to the nearest assistant and holding out a finger for pause. “I’ve got to take this call and I’ll be with you.”

He watches them melt under his soft smile, one he’s had permanently fastened to his face for the duration of Liam’s temporary vacation. Which he needs to brief Simon about in the upcoming seconds. But he doesn’t want to do it face to face, Zayn is scared he’ll crack under the pressure of his father’s eyes. That’s not really an option he has, so he’ll do it the easy way—one he’s never been practiced in, but he’ll do it this one time.

For Liam.

That’s how he finds himself passing Perrie and stepping into the hallway. Zayn eyes the employees roaming here and there, so he allows his feet to shuffle him towards the bathing room, and when he closes the door, the sounds stay above the water and he’s left to drown in the room all by his lonesome.

“Dad?” Zayn doesn’t fancy the vulnerability in his voice, but he lets his question stand alone. He’s dialed and Simon has picked up. “Dad, you there?”

He hears Simon arranging papers, the _swish swish swish_ reminds him of Liam—everything reminds him of Liam—and Zayn has to hold on to the sink. The railing and porcelain and bolts keep him standing when nothing else does. “Zayn? Zayn, is that you? I know I—gentleman, excuse me for a moment?”

They’re so much alike, he and Simon. So many manners passed from one generation to the next.

Zayn’s hands resemble jelly, and his knuckles frost white at his grip. “Yeah, you erase my number or something?”

Liam, Liam. _Think about Liam,_ he reminds himself when Zayn catches himself falling victim to the reminiscent laughter of his dad in his ear. “I’m capable of reading my caller ID, if that’s what you’re asking. Surprised to hear from you, is all.”

Zayn doesn’t bother trying to recall a more awkward situation, he knows there isn’t one. The breaths that make their way from Zayn’s lungs into the air are steadier with the passing seconds of this conversation—all four lines of it. He feigns a cough to clear his throat. “I just called to—”

“Where have you been, son?”

The level of concern and care and comfort almost stray Zayn from his task, but he prevails, tells himself he’s lying to defend Liam. Those brown eyes and that soft touch, they were what needed protecting, not Simon. Not his father, the only one Zayn will ever have.

But there won’t be another Liam, either.

Zayn makes his choices with baited breath. “I’ve been here, just been busy. What I was—”

“I can’t pin you or Liam down for five minutes,” Simon relays, and Zayn thinks he might be laughing at him. Simon’s always had a sharp eye, one that extended through telephone calls to criticize the caller on the other end. He didn’t need to see Zayn to break him. Zayn should have taken that into consideration. “I see one of you and the other’s gotten away from me.”

Zayn is curious, now. “You’ve seen Liam?”

“The other day, maybe three days back?” Simon knows why Zayn is calling, he can hear it. Blood from his brain, that’s all Zayn can see. Dripping and bubbling and running with no place to go, he’s about to lie and Simon’s caught him before he can speak his words of mistruth. “He won’t pick up my phone calls, but I’ve been assured that he’s busy as well. If I’m going to be honest, I had assumed the two of you had taken up at your current hotel room.”

Zayn’s not even sure how Simon knows his whereabouts, but he’s damn sure going to ask. “How did you know—?”

Simon’s answering Zayn before he has time to register a complete question. “I know everything about my boys, Zayn. It’s my business to be on top of your wellbeing.”

Zayn’s mind is still stuck—Liam’s in town. Simon hasn’t left the city, and in order for him to see Liam, Liam would have to be resting within the confines of this city. He’s under Zayn’s nose, and that—more boiling blood, he sees—is infuriatingly frustrating. Flaunting and flashing himself in the public eye, in a town where Zayn’s are peeled and open and searching obviously not hard enough.

“Where did you see him?” The bones of Zayn’s hand reveal themselves to him, it’s almost grotesque how they stand out. Before something snaps, Zayn releases his hold and watches the blood make its way back into his fingertips. “Where did you—where was he at? Exactly?”

“Carlota’s,” Simon explains, and that could be a lie, his lie. Simon doesn’t eat Spanish food, and Carlota has served authentic dishes for as long as his memory lets him recall. A trap is what Zayn could be treading into, so he steps lightly, hums for more information when Simon’s gone silent. “I was having a meal with Barto, if you don’t believe me.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Just hi, I told him we missed him at Sunday dinner.”

This is his chance to back out, never speak of this again and let circumstances run their course. If Simon should find out that Liam is gone, the blame shouldn’t fall on Zayn’s shoulders, he knows nothing. Only what Liam will tell him, which is a hair’s width away from nothing. Zayn is left with thick veils over his eyes, but he’s being instructed to act as if the sun is shining freely on his face.

“So he didn’t tell you he was going out of town?” Zayn’s decisions are made for him when his mouth flits around words not fully formed in his brain, yet.

The drips of pressure in the air fall from a great distance, splashing guilt and worry across Zayn when they hit the shaky ground beneath him. “No,” Simon casually speaks, the direct opposite of Zayn’s harried self. “I guess he didn’t. That’s something I would remember.”

Lying isn’t in Zayn’s job description, he doesn’t hold the ability to craft words into long, educated phrases that elude others from the truth. Still, he gives it a go, takes the absence of Simon’s outrage as a sign of a burden he doesn’t have to carry. “What was gonna happen, was I was seeing if I could maybe snag Mickey Donovan down here to talk about some rose and stem trade, and—”

“And you didn’t want Liam around in case something went wrong,” Simon stops talking. It’s cut and dry, him finishing Zayn’s sentence, almost like it was on purpose. Almost. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe his father didn’t want to hear his son lie to him. Maybe Zayn was overreacting, just a fucking lot. “Smart.”

_Smart._

That’s all he says.

He calls Zayn smart and goes on, speaking about the weather and Nan’s Polish sausage fail at Sunday dinner, and mumbling something about his guests in the lobby—normal. It feels normal, and Zayn feels anything but smart.

Knuckles rap on his door, and Zayn’s this close to strangling whoever stands on the other side. His dad is still speaking, tone still littered with shreds of laughter and a lightness Zayn wants so badly to feel in his chest again. “Dad, I have to go.”

“Look, Zayn, with everything going on…”

He certainly doesn’t wish to discuss anything that’s been going. “I really should be going.”

“You can stay and listen for a goddamn minute,” and now Simon’s yelling. Well, not yelling, but he’s so close to the edge that Zayn can feel the splash on water that propels to the top of the ledge they’re both standing on. “I haven’t had a chance to sit down with my boys,” he sighs, and Zayn repeats that line. _His boys,_ he thinks. Simon’s boys. Boys that belonged to Simon. Like sons. “We all have our respective businesses.”

Zayn shakes himself to regain a semblance of composure—back straight, knees strong, head held high—the soldier Simon taught him to be stands front and center. When he looks in the mirror— _he still sees her_ —but he sees himself, someone Liam and Simon have taught him to be proud of. Tough choices are a part of the protocol, so Zayn sucks it up. “Dad—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and that—that’s an apology that should be on Zayn’s tongue, not his father’s.

“For what?” For a lot of things, but nothing they’re covering today. Nothing that’s not at the forefront of Zayn’s mind, unless—unless he’s talking about Liam. Zayn pushes for an answer again when Simon stays silent. “What are you sorry for, Dad?”

“For everything I should be sorry for,” is a vague answer, but it’s the one Zayn gets. It doesn’t fulfill the inquiries that Zayn finds himself with, just adds to the cracks in what he once knew as the blatant truth of his life. Simon clears his throat and Zayn’s still standing, but just barely, his façade a strong breath away from cracking. “I’m proud of you, the both of you. There aren’t many times that I get the chance to tell you that, but it’s true.”

Liam has showered Zayn with compliments, and he’s received it in tenfold, but this—to hear it from someone whose opinion will always matter to Zayn regardless of the actions they should choose to make—it’s different. “Was it you,” Zayn demands, the flowing of revelations and truth spurring him. “Liam, the alley—” there’s a struggle in his chest, but Zayn finally grabs a hold of his voice. “Was that you, Si— _Dad,_ I need to know.”

The lack of hesitation is either assuring or worrisome, Zayn doesn’t have a chance to put his thumb on either reaction. “No, son. You have to believe me, it wasn’t. It wasn’t.”

“You have to promise. Promise me.”

They don’t say anything incriminating, but Zayn’s stiff posture and even more practiced smiles have told Simon what his thoughts are, he knows. And there’s nothing more fearsome to Zayn than being found as a fraud—a mouth on a body that’s the home to a soul full of lies—so he shakes and clears his throat more, once more. More, and then again. Until Simon talks again—overpowers Zayn with the strength and sheer truth in his voice.

“I’d sooner rather put a bullet right between my own eyes,” he admits, and Zayn rakes over Simon’s words to find any piece of inaccuracy, but he’s left empty-handed and broken-hearted. “You have to know that.”

Zayn does. He should, there should be no questioning. This is who he is; Simon is who he trusts. But it has to come to this, the two axis’s of his life finally pulling him apart and forcing him to choose in order to spin again. To spin in the right direction. _What is right?_ Why don’t Liam’s logic and Simon’s align? Why—fuck, why does Zayn have to be caught in the middle?

“Then how—” he stutters, runs and falls to ask, his knees buckling as if there were an actual collision of right and wrong. “How did— _who?_ If it wasn’t you, then who did it?”

“Just because it—” Simon wants to say more, Zayn squints to see the words on the end of his tongue through his phone, but again, he gains nothing, holding out for no reason because _it_ is all they can call what happened to Liam. It. They’re reduced—two strong and independent men, afraid of only themselves—to staying silent out of fear of re-flashing memories. _It._ Simon starts again, clearer this time, less cracks in the vocal of his single lined explanation. “Just because it wasn’t me, doesn’t mean it wasn’t someone just as dangerous. I’m not the only man who wears a black hat in this town.”

“Dad,” he whispers, because what Simon’s saying isn’t untrue. And standing here inside the walls that housed Zayn from child to manhood, it’s unnerving. Talking to his father with a red and warm knife of malice in his heart—that’s not a weight that sits comfortably on Zayn’s shoulders. So again, he says, “Dad.” And then, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Because Zayn isn’t above reproach, he can apologize for the things he can’t fix. The wheels are in motion and the only pair of lips and hands and feet he can control are his own.

“I was protecting you,” Simon utters just as humble, as true and raw as Zayn’s unstopped spiel of apologies. “That was always my main priority.”

“Thank you.”

Zayn doesn’t know what he’s going do—but he thinks he’s back where he’s supposed to be. Fully in the middle, his heart in Liam’s hands and his gratitude in his father’s.

“Tell Liam to hurry home, son. I better see one of you at dinner.”

Zayn will make it okay.

“Yes sir.”

**/////**

The last twelve hours have brought Zayn radio silence. His soles get lost in the gravel of Francis Tudor’s courtyard, the winding trail of step-stones and roses conflicting with the hard image Zayn has of the old man in his head. The wrinkles under his eyes distract Zayn from thinking about Liam long enough to conduct an adequate business deal.

Louis walks behind them, alongside a member of Tudor’s security detail. The cut up the back of Zayn’s suit does nothing to expel the coolness from his body—the wind is whipping and unkind.

Still, Francis compliments him. “Your tailoring, it’s exquisite.”

Zayn fights himself, lets sleeping dogs lie where they may instead of foaming at the corners of his mouth, shouting that _he doesn’t care._

Zayn doesn’t want to be here. He’s got places to look, ones he failed to comb over while his brain was busy loving Liam so much that he forgot about the skills he possessed. Skills that Zayn instilled in him.

No, he can’t yell that. He can’t scream that. Because Zayn has a deadline that will require actual cold bodies in trade should he make one slip of the tongue.

“Carol Bernini,” Zayn says, hands finding his pockets and eyes straying to his peripherals for Louis’ slick hair. “You should have her over, she works magic.” He guides his hands over the front of his attire for show. “There isn’t a full piece suit in my wardrobe her hands haven’t touched.” 

Zayn looks over Francis, notices the detailing in which his own suit jacket has been acquired to fit his shoulders and arms and middle. He doesn’t need a tailor, Zayn’s aware. Small talk, it’s not a lost art form, just a tired one. And if the old money collecting dust and blood and tears in the bottom of Tudor’s basement didn’t hold so much value, Zayn would have sliced him at the knees, gotten to his point and avoided the chatting and the walking and the gazing at flowers.

“I’ll have to give her a call,” he says. And Zayn knows Francis really wants to say, _what are you doing here?_ Also, “Do you have a good shoemaker,” translates into, _does your money spread as far as mine?_ “You have to have a good shoemaker. The sizing of the modern industry isn’t as specific as it used to be. Carelessness, that’s what young people have brought to the economy.”

He doesn’t excuse Zayn, try to exclude him from the demographic. It’s refreshing to start at the bottom, Zayn thinks. The room to grow is much more, allows Zayn to impress his partners with strong leaps and bounds. This isn’t his father’s money, it’s his. Side investments that will help Zayn bring in enough money to pad his shy and grow what little army he has under his thumb.

It was originally a precaution, one that was planned weeks before Liam left him. Days before everything went wrong. Now, Zayn doesn’t want to be here, can think of an abundant amount of options at his disposable, but Zayn isn’t on to make appointments and not show up.

He doesn’t cancel.

“That’s a valid opinion. My generation has a tendency to be un-smart with their money,” Zayn remarks, wincing at the powder worming its way to the end of his shoes. Brogues and white clouds of dust don’t mesh well enough to settle Zayn’s stomach. Francis stops walking and Zayn halts as well, waving Louis away when Francis does the same with his detail, leaving them alone in a garden of winter hydrangeas and non-seasonal distrust. “But I’m hoping to change your mind where I’m involved.”

The gun at Tudor’s waist is something that fails to intimidate Zayn. He has one tucked into the back of his trousers, as well. Tudor isn’t in any shape for a tussle, his bones are old but his spirit and presence combined are anything but weak. “I don’t give second chances, Malik. The name your father carries on his back means nothing to me.”

That’s a note he’ll remember for later, a stringing of words and letters that should send up a red flag, but don’t. Eyes front and shoulders back, _never be afraid._ “Cowell isn’t the name I plan on opening the account on, sir. My affairs are my affairs.”

His trust isn’t extended to Zayn, that much is obvious. Still, when he holds his hand out and Zayn produces an amount of cash that will get him the supplies he’ll redistribute, it’s taken. And they finish their tour, men still behind them.

“You really are your father’s son,” he says to Zayn, and for the first time in his twenty-odd years of living, Zayn doesn’t think Simon is being referred to as the man responsible for his upbringing. “You’ll get what you need upon arrival.”

He salutes, because he’s still unfamiliar with his limbs, still a colt on unsteady legs when he’s doing this—turning profits of his own, putting a name on the line that doesn’t carry the tarnished reputation of Cowell. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

“We’ll see,” Tudor mouths, words slick and slimy coming from underneath his grey-haired mustache.

“I suppose we will.”

And then Zayn gets the fuck out of there. Because he doesn’t trust anyone except the driver in the front seat, and maybe the girl tending to his club. Maybe Liam.

Just maybe.

When he starts seeing flashes of red—in the flashing of ambulance lights and the stop signs lining the streets, all too red, all too much—he begs Louis to pull over.

When it all comes crumbling down _—Simon—_ Zayn will be lost in the aftermath, he just knows it. Liam’s giant wrecking ball of discovery will bury Zayn in a mess of rubble and shattered livelihood.

Maybe he doesn’t trust Liam.

And maybe that scares him more than Francis Tudor ever will.

**/////**

Zayn is just trying to piece everything together, but it’s not working, it doesn’t fit. And the smell of fresh leather and stale coffee isn’t doing him any favors. Free, he wants to be free, needs it.

Louis has already pulled over, so all Zayn has to do is try the door, but it sticks. Locked in, caged. “Open the fucking door.”

In the rearview mirror Zayn can see Louis shake his head, definite no. But fuck, he’s not the one mandated to give orders, so Zayn speaks again. “Open the door. I need to get out.”

“Your phone is ringing,” Louis enunciates, like Zayn isn’t capable of understanding words that aren’t broken down in syllables for him. Zayn looks down, sees Liam’s name flashing across the pixels of his screen, and he should have noticed. He should have seen and heard and picked up. But he didn’t—doesn’t. “Zayn, answer your phone. ‘M gonna go ahead and take you to the club.”

His fists hammer on the glass, Zayn doesn’t want to be stuck. Right here in the midst of a mess he failed to tidy up, but ultimately didn’t create. _London_ _, why is Liam still in London?_ Zayn moves his hand underneath his nose, but it doesn’t strip away the phantom trickery of a tickle. Liam was moving right in front of him, pulling wool over the entirety of his face, taping his mouth shut and wrapping more cloth over his eyes.

Zayn can’t breathe like this.

“Open the fucking door, Louis.” Zayn’s mouth doesn’t take shape around the words _please, please, for me_. But the sides of his hands make the plea. He coughs around unshed tears that choke him up, the mess of his life lying before him and beside him. In this car and that cell phone. “I need to walk around, get some air. Let me out. Let—just, let me _out._ ”

Out of what, he does not yet know, but he can start with this vehicle. Zayn can start by unbuckling himself from the restraints he’s placed himself in and walking out of the first place he’s finding trouble gaining ground in. Everything else can come after, he hopes. Prays, with the clench of his fists and the constant flutter of his eyelids.

“We’re four blocks away,” Louis says, but Zayn only just hears him. His phone rings again, it’s Liam. Zayn stays alert for the click of an unlocked door, leaves the rest to dwell at the back of his mind. Louis’ finger is still until Zayn looks at him, eyes meeting via reflections. Zayn’s foot ticks, _time time time,_ he doesn’t have it. “MVP is a mile away, four blocks, Zayn.”

“Okay,” he pants, exerted for no other reason besides the fight waging inside him. “I’ll be there. Four blocks, okay.”

“An hour.”

He repeats Louis’ exasperated time keep, trying the door again and again and again. “I’ve made my promises, let me out.”

Louis unlocks the door and Zayn stumbles outside the perimeter of the car, slamming the door shut with unsteady hands and hitting the pavement with sure feet.

Zayn makes his way between a building—dark and cold and void of any disturbances.

No red, no white, just black. Nothing. Louis stays parked until Zayn rounds the alley, and when he peeks around the corner, Louis is gone and Zayn is truly alone. His phone is gone as well, and when Zayn breathes out he’s satisfied with the puff of smoke that comes with hot breath on an icy night.

It’s not until he’s sunken down beside a dumpster, soles warm and worn from running and never looking back, that Zayn realizes he still doesn’t know what he freed himself from—just knows that it feels amazing.

**/////**

It hasn’t been an hour yet, Zayn knows it hasn’t been. The route his feet take him is uncertain, but he does know it’s circled. Around and around, Zayn imitates a wheel the way he roams in circles. He’s back to where Louis let him out of his vehicle, and the four blocks lie once more ahead of him.

But there’s an echo of footsteps, ones that are not his own.

Zayn stops and spreads his hands over his chest to soothe his ragged breaths. In and out, and still not alone.

Definitely not alone.

Cars, he can hear those, they’re distant. Tracks on pavement, most likely headed in the direction that he should be going in. This isn’t a bad neighborhood, but a grey area—building stuck between warehouses and grocery stores in the dead of night—Zayn so wishes that he had more than a knife, wants his gun. _Stupid,_ he says, repeats in his head while he steps over glass shards and soaked cardboard to find a niche small enough to fit his body into.

It’s a precaution, because Zayn doesn’t run from danger, just from his responsibilities. Soft curses follow him, ones that Zayn can tell aren’t supposed to be slipping out. He’s cold and shaken and hunched over, one hand over his mouth and the other fingering a knife that sits in his waistband.

A drunk, it could be. Some girl stumbling home, and Zayn has never fancied making a fool out of himself, so he stays quiet and presses himself against more filth the closer the noises get. Footfalls. Light and careful but not quiet enough now that Zayn’s mind isn’t screaming so loud.

His mind flashes to his past, him as a teenager hiding in trenches and breaking knuckles and arms and legs. A more vicious Zayn that he’s not sure he can conjure anymore. “Where are you,” someone asks, but it’s not Zayn. It’s a girl and it’s _his_ voice, but it’s not coming from his mouth. He doesn’t speak that soft or that high, but that’s his voice. “Where the fuck did you go,” she whispers again, and she’s right there.

If Zayn peeks around right now, he could grab her.

It’s not random, it’s not a stranger, Zayn is being sought out.

“Fucking _fuck,_ ” she whispers, but Zayn can hear her, knows she wants to shout and he can relate. He can relate to the bottle of rage that’s capped by tenacity. But he doesn’t want to sympathize, not when he’s in an alley, not when he’s alone and it’s dark and someone is fucking following him. “Can’t believe I lost him, _shit_.”

Zayn can’t feel his toes or the tips of his ears, all he can feel is the thump of his heart in his chest, pattering and thumping and _fuck,_ this isn’t him. He won’t die without telling Liam that he loves him once more, without telling his father once more how grateful he will always be.

Zayn will not die in a corner. He won’t be found with defensive wounds, crouched against a soggy box and broken glass. Zayn will pick up his own pieces, he is not a _coward._

He doesn’t hear her speak again, but it gets eerily quiet and Zayn knows he has been found.

The silence is broken, his ears hear moving steps and digging soles. He lunges, and all he catches is air. The knife wedged between his fingers is sheathed, uncovered and useless until Zayn has time to switch the blade open and jab for a target. But right now he’s busy trying to keep his hand attached to his body, his opponent, stiffing her limbs and clutching his wrist and shoulder. 

All he sees is flashes of hair, curtains of stands whipping in what little light they’re provided. She’s fast, and Zayn can’t say that he’s faster, but he does have enough weight to overpower her with a twist of his body. He damns the lack of grip on the bottom of his shoes, because he’s close to falling onto his face, and the irony in her weight steadying them doesn’t evade him.

Gravel crunches beneath them and Zayn’s mind is only catching up to him. Telling Zayn that he’s spinning out of the grasp of a woman, one he fully intends to hit and disarm. But she leeches to him, foot catching his ribs, and nails clawing into his hand until Zayn’s knife clangs to the ground. The only upper hand he gets is when she dives for it at the same time he does, the end of his elbow jutting out far enough to slow her down with a blow to the nose. The fraction of a second doesn’t serve Zayn as well as he’d wish, but the gravitation of her hand to her hip alerts him of a concealed weapon he wasn’t privy to.

“No fucking way,” he whispers, Zayn’s voice scratching its way out of his throat. Zayn’s still on his stomach, and he forgets about his knife when she kneels and points a gun at him, the crook of her elbow wrapped around her injured face. “There’s no way I’m getting my ass kicked by a bitch.”

“Are we watching the same fight,” she asks, and Zayn can barely hear it, but she still fucking says it. Using _his voice,_ the pitch only just above his.

The gun doesn’t phase him, and he’ll regret it later—pulling such a pussy move—but it’ll do now, and he just hopes that she won’t get back up.

His hands don’t open in surrender, even with her on one knee with a gun in the direction of his face. Zayn has no way of knowing if the safety is on, but he’s willing to gamble because he’s _not_ willing to lie down and die. There could be a glint in her eye, but the lights aren’t kind enough to make it easy enough for Zayn to read. But with the bottom half of her face still covered by her arm, he takes a chance.

When he moves, she doesn’t shoot—he was counting on that—just swings her gun around to clip him in the chin, but he’s that much faster and her hair is wrapped around his fist and he’s bringing her closer. The control she has over her weapon goes to shit when she struggles to get out of Zayn’s grip, but he shifts to his knees with her head still in his hands, and it scares him how satisfying it is to hear the scrape of skin against rock and glass and dirt when he shoves her cheek down against the pavement.

Zayn would feel bad, his Nan taught him better—he knows not to put his hands on a woman—but this isn’t a woman, this is a machine. A fighter, one who still has fight left in her with Zayn’s knee in her back and his fingers ready to rip out the follicles of her hair, should she get the jump on him.

“Nuh-uh,” he almost shouts, pressing her harder into the ground to decrease what’s left of her mobility when she twists her arm around to get a shaky shot at him. He has to move fast to grab her gun—fucking heavy thing—and fumble with the safety switch before tucking it away one handed. “You really don’t know how to give up, do you?”

It’s almost amazing to Zayn how she’s still able to snarl with particles of dust in her lungs, words moving out of lips that have to be split somewhere. “If you wouldn’t have pulled my hair like a _bitch,_ you’d be the one giving up.”

Because Zayn doesn’t want to stay here, not for a second longer, he hauls her up, never underestimating her range of movement, and he knows that his fingers in her hair are keeping him alive. Vanity is everyone’s weakness.

Cars are still going by, but the occasional flashing lights on the main road do nothing to distract Zayn from his course. When they’re closer to a streetlamp, he tilts her head angled enough for him to see her face.

 _His_ face.

There’s nothing gentle about the way Zayn turns her towards him and slams her up against a bin, the metal colliding with the sack of bones inside her skin and making more noise than he’s comfortable with. She does move her leg to kick him, and _fuck,_ he doesn’t want to, but he wraps his other hand around her throat, if only to hold her still.

The split lips and bloody nose don’t deter him, he knows her.

It’s _his_ face.

It’s _her._

Maybe the lack of red threw him for a loop, maybe the movement and the tangible skin and bones and fingers left her out of the equation because she doesn’t fucking exist. Yet here she is, filthy fucking smile around red-tinted teeth, hair stuck to the sliced bridge of her nose. It’s the same smile Zayn sees when he looks in the mirror, the same one he sees when he closes his eyes and Liam’s not there to drive her away from the bay of his nightmares.

“Who are you,” Zayn asks, because he wants to know. There’s nothing else he can say, nothing else Zayn can ask because that’s the only thing he wants to know. If he’s going to curse her, to bury her _—kill her—_ he wants a name to put on her tombstone. “Who the fuck are you,” Zayn repeats when her grin grows wider. When the cracks in her lips bleed out and tease Zayn because he’ll never make her talk. He may have a hand—now a forearm—at her throat, but he’s still losing. “Answer the goddamn question.”

“I think you know,” is not the answer he’s spent the better part of his life asking, but it’s the one that spits from her mouth.

A car turns down the alley way, but it’s nothing, someone who made a wrong turn. And they’re hidden enough among the shadows that he doesn’t give a shit if they drive all the way through. He’s not letting her go. She’s right here, in his hands—literally—and there’s nothing that’s going to stop Zayn from filling the hole of questions she’s left in her wake.

Or putting an end to it, all of it.

A real end, one consisting of a bullet in one of their foreheads. And for a second Zayn wonders if one of them can exist without the other, if he can live without her looming over him. If she can survive without someone to torture, to taunt. He’s willing to find out.

“Why—why am I letting you breathe?”

He’s not sure if he’s asking her, or questioning himself. One move and it’s over, he’s safe from her reach. Liam is safe, the family unit that Simon created will remain intact, because there isn’t a doubt now, in Zayn’s mind that the blame rests solely on her shoulders. _Somehow._

“Because,” she says, shrugs at Zayn, and smiles.

It’s sinister, and she’s a monster if Zayn’s ever seen one. “Because why,” he insists, applying the rest of his weight to her throat and frowning when she doesn’t sputter. “Start fucking talking before you don’t get a chance to.” He jerks his weight against her throat again. “Because why?”

“Because I’m about to save your life.”

Zayn knows that he wasn’t wrong when he assured himself that he never had the upper hand, but he didn’t think it would be like this. The crack of their skulls makes Zayn take a step back, and all he sees are headlights and stars and shadows moving across the sheet of light let off by the flickering streetlight. She barely wipes at her nose, the bruises blooming there not affecting her as she sidesteps the punch he puts all of his weight into and tosses him in an odd direction. He’s surrounded by garbage and she’s frisking Zayn for her gun at his waist before he can buck her off with a kick of his feet.

She’s at her knees atop him, gun in her hand, and Zayn just watches, lets the final seconds of his life settle in front of his eyelids in the second it takes her to check her magazine and switch on the safety. He only closes his eyes for Liam, that one second of fear for his sake, but then he opens them, watches her point her gun while what’s probably her getaway car approaches.

She’s still hidden, they both are, driven back into the shadows when she pushed him on piles of discarded belongings, but now she’s running into the middle of the alley. He mentally checks to see if he’s already been shot, but he finds nothing, and when he stands—because if she’s not going to shoot him point blank, he’s going to fucking move—he crashes back into place when she pulls out a silencer and screws it into place before running to her assistance vehicle and fucking shooting.

Silencers don’t drown out all the noise, so Zayn very much hears three separate bullets collide with a windshield, and whoever is driving doesn’t even have a chance to shoot back before she’s firing again, unlocking an empty chamber and sliding a fresh one into place. It’s produced from no where, and Zayn considers running, but isn’t stupid enough to think that she won’t gun him down as soon as his back is turned.

When he tries to make his way out from behind the pile of trash, rounds of practice fire hail around him and he stays down, getting the fucking message and praying that Louis comes looking for him soon. Zayn hears the doors open, _ding ding ding._ The lights are still on, and Zayn’s shaking, she’s fucking crazy.

Zayn eyes dart around for his knife, but it’s nowhere that he can see it. He hears thumps, one after the other, _thump thump thump._ Only there’s time in between, and the sound of feet dragging against unforgiving shards of glass and pocket stones. When she says, “You can come out, now” Zayn thinks about Liam. About Eleanor, and even Louis. Simon, too. He wonders what they’ll think when they find him here, what will happen to Louis for setting him free. What they’ll say at his funeral, because she’s going to kill him.

And Zayn doesn’t blame her.

Because if he hadn’t have missed his chance, she would be the one dying.

It wouldn’t have taken a second thought—or it shouldn’t have—and Zayn can’t blame her for following the laws of natural selection. Eat or be eaten. He’d sunken his teeth into her flesh, ripped her open, but they were artificial wounds. Injuries that gave him enough confidence to let her slip out of his hands. Now she had the flaying knife that she would use to cut his heart right out of his chest, the pumps of blood not fazing her because she’s done it to him before.

When Zayn steps out, he does it on strong legs, the same ones that carried him here tonight, into her trap. He won’t cower in her presence, no matter how easy it is for her to detect the fear in his slow breaths and clenched hands.

Zayn should have ripped her fucking hair out when he had the chance.

There are three men, all piled onto each other, dead. There isn’t a bullet out of place, and Zayn knows without looking that the brains of three separate individuals are splattered across the interior of the SUV that stands idle in front of him, lights still on, _ding ding ding._

But they’re not unfamiliar faces, Zayn knows these people. He’s seen them, buff and burly and intimidating. Zayn has seen them today. _“You’ll get what you need,”_ flashes at the forefront of his mind, and it sounds a lot like _you’ll_ _get what you deserve_ the longer Zayn thinks about it.

“Are these Tudor’s men?” Zayn wants to be certain, this is a grave accusation, should he be alive to make it. “These aren’t your partners,” he asks in her direction, never taking his eyes off the gun she’s discarded in an empty thigh holster. “I thought they were your getaway—you. They don’t work with you?”

She’s offended, Zayn can hear it in the derisive snort, and it’s _his_ snort. That’s his sound of annoyance, and she’s taken it. Made it her own with a flash of rolling eyes and a bite to her broken lips. Zayn is still wary of his chances of making it out of here alive, so he combs the area, looks for anything to hit or distract her with, but he’s caught. She looks at him harshly before picking up a duffel bag and throwing it in his direction, laughing when he doesn’t catch it.

He doesn’t have to unzip the bag to know that it holds guns.

Guns they were going to kill him with.

Guns she saved him from.

“Do me a favor, yeah,” she asks, and Zayn’s bruised arm doesn’t side with the idea of doing any free tasks for her, other then putting the both of them in the ground at the same time, with no real victor.

“What do you want?”

“Next time you’re thinking abut walking around alone, _don’t_.”

Zayn closes his eyes to laugh, because she really is a fucking bitch and his laughter keeps his blood from boiling over, from popping outside of his veins.

And when he opens his eyes, she’s not there.

She’s gone, again.

**/////**

“I don’t fucking care how you have to get it, do your job.”

Zayn longs for socked feet, but he can’t toe his shoes off, not just yet. Not until everyone with prying eyes has filed out of this office. He stops facing, rests his soles in one place on the carpet, chest protruding and knees stiff. Zayn points again, this time to the goon slouched on Eleanor’s office couch, phone out, typing down notes and words of his leader. Because that’s what Zayn is, someone’s boss. He stamps his foot to utilize his place in charge and prays he doesn’t fuck up any of his words.

“Francis Tudor is done in this town, finished—don’t shake your fucking head, I don’t care.” Zayn combs his fingers through the grease slick tangle of his hair; he wants his father. Zayn doesn’t want to have to deal with this shit, on top of everything else. He winces when his knuckles are applied too much pressure, his bruises fading but not gone. Fuck—just _fuck._ “If he has old money he can fucking keep it. And I’ll take my _new_ money and goddamn outspend him. Find his income, who stocks his fucking warehouses. Buyers, sellers, I want all of ‘em.”

“Malik—”

Excuses, Zayn can see the air of excuses around the mouth of his men—the ones that never set foot in this club, the ones who play underground where no one can see them—and it lingers like the blood underneath their fingernails. Like the grime on their clothes that comes from chop shops and sewage transportation. Zayn doesn’t want to hear it, thinks his ears might bust over the blast of bullshit he’s again about to receive.

He shakes his head. “Let’s not forget that whatever Tudor steals from _me_ comes out of _your_ pockets. You can’t sell guns if you’re busy having to fucking use them.”

They seem to change their tune, and Zayn finishes giving orders. The burden of being a Chief distracts Zayn from the ache in his muscles and his heart. Simon has been briefed, and it took all of Zayn’s future leverage and credits to let his father leave Zayn to his own business. Fury doesn’t even begin to describe the long term range of emotions Zayn had seen on his face—worry, too.

But Zayn could handle this himself, he could. The wage of a war—small or large as it might be—brought credit to Zayn’s name. He could use the foothold into the career he wanted, but still—it feels shitty to be treated as so much as a lesser threat his first solo run out.

The door opens, but Zayn doesn’t look over, busies himself with telling Lucky what he needs to get over to his friend at the impound lot, let them sneak some cars to back their funding on the recon and Intel they’ll need on Tudor when he finds out why his guys went out hunting for Zayn and never came back. But when a female starts yelling, Zayn has to stand up and turn to the door, unsurprised when it’s Eleanor rushing his men out the door and coaxing his ears with the hoarse sound of her emotionless shrills.

She’s a wire bound to unravel here in seconds, and Zayn doesn’t know if he wants Eleanor’s vulnerability to be visible in front of these strangers. Guys not on her payroll because Zayn would never tie her to the breed of men now sitting on his couch, in their club. This is an emergency issue, and that’s the only reason Zayn allows them to show their faces in broad daylight in the same vicinity as Zayn’s livelihood.

“Gentlemen, excuse us?” Zayn stands up and makes a swift departure from the couch, settling himself between Eleanor’s sharp tongue and the clasping fists of a stout man Zayn recalls as Lepore.

The look Zayn gives him doesn’t cut him in half, because he doesn’t contain the power or width to strike fear into these men, they aren’t his regular runners. And Zayn doesn’t frequent the gym near as much as he should, so all he can do is wave his hand, direct them out the door with a promise to reconvene in a date that he can only label _soon_.

When they’re all cleared out and Eleanor is the only one left to leave behind a stench of anger and frustration—apart from Zayn, of course—Zayn closes the door behind him and tries with valiant effort to control the small beast of rage that sits itself inside his chest. “What makes you think you have permission to do that, hmm? Kick men out of my office?”

He stands still, knows that movement won’t be his friend. This has been coming for sometime, the explosion of opposite motives between Zayn and Eleanor. She stomps over to him, ignores the stiff posture he has leaning against her desk, and sees his agitation for what it is—present. “How about my name on the fucking door, Zayn? That do it enough for you?”

“Don’t pretend I didn’t put you there, Eleanor.” Zayn averts his eyes from her own, isn’t too thrilled to meet the fire there, the one that’s burning holes in all of Zayn’s defenses. The same fire he let seep into Eleanor when Zayn shut down the club three days ago. Shut Eleanor down so he could open the doors to a few unfriendly faces. “And don’t pretend I can’t put you out on your ass.”

Zayn pours himself a finger of Scotch, lets his fingers grip easily around the glass because it’s a lot easier to hold on to things that don’t matter rather than latch onto Eleanor and let big, fat apologies dot her blouse.

“Fuck you.” But she doesn’t take it as well, spews more venom at Zayn with her mouth closed than she ever could with it open. The long nails of her fingers come close to ripping the seams of his shirt, his overcoat long gone as well as his concern for garments that attract upstanding appearances. “I didn’t suck your dick to get my initials on the building,” she sneers, her knuckles growing whiter the longer Zayn goes physically unfazed. Her breath mingles with his and he can see the tears brimming at the cliff of matted eyelashes batting around her big, glassy eyes. She swallows. “You want to throw a pity party, ‘cause the guy that _does_ suck your dick ran off to be with the broad that messed up that pretty face of yours?”

Zayn’s the one swallowing this time, and the shame alone is nearly enough to break the phlegm in his throat. Still, he doesn’t dare say anything, lets the temporary hatred El has for him at the moment run its course.

“Fine,” Zayn’s never seen the bubbling of anger get the best of Eleanor, but it does now. His silence serves as no quell. When she shoves Zayn, the spillage of his untouched drink put him right up at the edge. “But you can take your worthless pride and your good humor buddies and get the _fuck_ out of my place.”

And her words—fucking know-it-all accusations—send Zayn into nose-dive position. “Tudor’s men came after me, did this to me—”

“Bullshit,” Eleanor screams, and Zayn prepares himself, puts the glass down and unscrews the bones of her fingers from his shirt. She’s still talking shit, and Zayn hates Eleanor for knowing where to press her words and slurs. “I scanned the bodies in the alley when you called me and Louis, _no bruises,_ Malik. And I can’t help but notice how your face seems to match the mug of the chick that’s been tailing you for days now.”

He should gun her down, rip a hole through her chest with the piece in his pocket, because she knows too much. Zayn should never have let Eleanor stay on a long enough leash to sniff around in business that didn’t concern her. It was a problem, the second one of the same kind. He won’t let it happen again on the watch he keeps eye over.

Her back hits the wall, and Zayn’s blind to what he’s actually doing until he gets a good look at the gun resting in the basin of her throat. “Tudor messed up,” Zayn insists, beads of sweat doing nothing to overshadow the stink of his fears. That she may lose all the faith she’s ever had in Zayn. The look of disgust that settles above the fright makes Zayn’s stomach turn. “He’ll catch the heat from this, you just mind your own business.”

Eleanor’s smirk is nasty, something Zayn doesn’t want to be on this end of. “Dipping your toes into the murder business again, Zayn?” If he weren’t near her, wasn’t staring down the barrel of his gun, Zayn would be proud of the nonchalance she holds. But that fucking mouth, it keeps running, and Zayn doesn’t know how many more cracks he can take until she’s broken him, again. “Gonna kill someone—shove their fingers down their _throat_ —and hope it makes you feel better about lying in bed without your piece of shit _narc,_ who can’t even swallow a load of pride to save his own _family?_ ”

Zayn drops his gun—doesn’t mean to—but does. She’s right, and Zayn is drowning in the mud of the toils around him—Liam running off, Eleanor talking about things she really does know about, his blood split by a real life nightmare. Zayn only surfaces when he’s alone, and even then, he still has to spit out the slime of everyone else’s fucking mess to get air into his lungs.

“You don’t know shit about shit, Eleanor.” But his bravado has long since worn off and Zayn is sinking while standing still, legs upright with his heart on the ground. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

“I know you’re hurting, and instead of telling Liam to get off his fucking high horse and come home, you’re running around getting Francis Tudor’s shit on your shoes.” Zayn can’t pinpoint when Eleanor became so brutal, and he doesn’t want to know when it happened if he’s honest, just why. He can’t take the guilt of another cold heart on his conscience.

Zayn’s finger falls to his chest, and they both eye the gun that lies between them on the floor. Neither one of them will back down further, it’s common knowledge—their knack for stubborn feet and thicker skulls. “I’m not a _pussy,_ and I don’t need some secretary telling me how to run my life.”

She nods, resigned for a second before she looks back at Zayn “Just your business, huh? Don’t you forget that I do two sets of books for you—that I’ve saved your ass more times than you’ve saved mine.”

Zayn can take that, accept it. If she wants to keep their relationship in the form of plusses and minuses, Zayn can understand where she’s coming from. But the crack in their friendship can’t affect Simon, his business, all that he’s worked for to keep a successful secret. Zayn’s eyes catch sight of his weapon again, he watches Eleanor follow his gaze. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m _reminding_ you. I book-keep drinks because I’m your goddamn secretary.” It hurts her to say those words, and the first chance Zayn gets, he’ll let a slew of apologies pass his lips. She carries on with her chin in her hands, taking cues from Zayn’s desire to slink to the ground and actually doing so. The harsh scratch of Eleanor’s nails on her scalp drives a shiver down Zayn’s spine. She looks up at him, and it takes whatever is left of the gall Zayn has not to turn away. “Running your end of tail to keep you in those suits and that big house Simon lets you sleep in, I do that because I’m your best friend.”

“Liam is my best friend,” he argues, because Zayn wants it to be true. _It is true._

“Liam’s your bleeding heart,” she denounces, and now El’s laughing at him, but the shards of ice in her cackle aren’t aimed at any place other than his pride, so he stays standing. “Your Achilles heel is what that kid is.” The sting of the truth makes Zayn’s brain hurt, and the blood rushes too fast, the only tunnel of sound found around the voice of his most trusted friend. “Maybe he’s even your one true love,” Eleanor’s sarcasm warps her words. “But what Liam’s doing to you right now? To all of you, including me? _Shit,_ Zayn, we’ve got enemies that treat us better.”

“If you’ve got something to say? Say it to me.”

Zayn thinks he might be asleep, that the puncture wounds of Eleanor’s words let him bleed out right there on the floor. Because there’s no other sense to be made of the vision next to them, the broad shoulders in the door. The wide scowl and those damn eyes. Brown and big and filled with all the love that Zayn’s been missing. Pussy or not, if fills him, takes Zayn’s knees out from under him before he stumbles to right himself.

“Liam?”

**/////**

“Eleanor, put the gun down.”

The spunk she has, the quickness in which she dived for Zayn’s piece as soon as she identified Liam—Zayn would like to know where all of that originated. Where she learned to disable the safety and establish a firm grip around the handle with a poised finger dancing along the trigger. Zayn chalks it up to her Sicilian nativity and coaxes her up from her knees. She doesn’t freeze or flinch when Zayn’s fingers land at her back, but her eyes never leave Liam—fuck, Liam—and the scope of Zayn’s gun doesn’t waver.

“You don’t know why he’s here,” she says, teeth gritting and knees slowly stiffening, Eleanor’s stance more on the attack as the seconds tick by. Liam’s breath, Zayn can hear it quickening from where he’s standing.

Zayn wants to concentrate on that—rememorize all the things that have had a chance to change—but Eleanor doesn’t show any signs of backing down with Liam as her only encouragement. Liam moves, and Zayn barely sees it, just a slide to the side, but it’s a chain reaction, his shuffling causing Eleanor to raise her gun again.

No one moves.

“Zayn, make her put the gun down.”

Aside from his entering statement, that’s the only thing Zayn’s heard Liam say in days—the first thing he’s seen him say in weeks. His lips move, and Zayn’s throat constricts. He almost forgets—about Eleanor holding Liam at gunpoint, about him leaving, about the betrayal Liam stamped into the heart pumping blood throughout Zayn’s tired body— _almost._

It’s dangerous, loving someone with everything you have. And Zayn knows that now, because he was left with nothing, and he’s learned his lesson. Liam doesn’t hold any lesser value to him, but Zayn now knows the danger in loving someone more than they love you.

“She’s not going to shoot, Liam,” Zayn assures him, because Eleanor is equally as hurt as Zayn, but she shows it in a different way. When he touches her back, the surge of anguish almost knocks him over. The vibration of her nerves collide with Zayn’s own wounded hesitation, and he can plead again, with confidence, “El, babe, put it down.”

She knows her soft heart has been sought out and discovered, her grip falters, but the gun is still in the air, aimed right at Liam. “You rolling over on my club?”

It’s an answer Zayn would like to hear. Zayn’s focus is torn between the barrel staring in Liam direction, and Liam. Liam, whose hands are raised in surrender. Who has grown out the hair on his chin, his jaw sharp and covered in wiry hairs that Zayn wants to relearn with his lips. And his hair, Zayn would like to comb through that with sure fingers, the fear of Liam leaving again hidden in a deep spot inside his chest. Eyes that plead with Zayn for more. More time, more mercy, more explanations. More of everything Zayn has, but has never handed over.

And maybe he still won’t.

“I would never betray you, El. You’re like family to me.”

But most of all, of all those brand new features—the things Zayn longs to roam over with sweaty palms and thankful smiles—he’d like to punch Liam in his lying mouth.

Eleanor snorts, but she folds, barreling Zayn’s palm and letting him take back the cold eye of steel she’d used in an attempt to keep Liam honest. From the derision in her grimace, Zayn can tell neither of he or Eleanor are certain it worked. “Fat lot of good that’s going to do me with you.”

Zayn can feel his connection with Liam resurge; the one temporarily severed—because the knife Eleanor digs into Liam’s chest can be felt at the base of Zayn’s. Liam’s eyes fall closed, hurt. “That’s not fair.”

Eleanor looks like she might try to shoot Liam again out of pure frustration. So Zayn disables his weapon, slides out the magazine and pockets the rest of the components out of El’s reach.

She raises her eyebrows at his movements, and Zayn thinks she might be thankful for the distraction from whatever the hell she’s got going on with their returned friend in the doorway. “Where’d you learn how to do that? Been brushing up since Thing Number 2 got the jump on you? Learning Spy Kids moves and all that, yeah?”

“She hurt you?”

She.

Liam knows about her. Of course he does, Zayn should have seen it coming. Without knowing her name, only coining her as a color _—red—_ Zayn knows that’s she’s vindictive. That taking the single most important factor in the turn of events penned as Zayn’s life, she crippled him. Twisting Liam’s mind into a mesh of emotions and thoughts that don’t match up with Zayn or his father—that’s her way of capping Zayn at the knees.

“Eleanor, give us a minute?" Zayn speaks tersely, keeping his head down and waiting for Eleanor to take leave after having a strict discussion with him via flexing fingers and eyebrow movements.

Zayn doesn’t know if he wants to be alone with Liam.  

“She hurt you, Zayn?” The way Liam steps forward makes Zayn step back. There’s intent there—intent to touch and hold and do all of the things that Zayn doesn’t know if he’s fucking ready for, alright? He’s not ready.

Fuck, Liam can’t just come in here—just walk in—like nothing happened. Like nothing has changed. Eleanor looks between them, and Zayn can tell she doesn’t want to leave him alone with Liam any more than he wants her to leave. When a speculative eyebrow rises, Zayn gives her the go ahead, exchanges words with her through a series of silent pleas before she leaves.

There isn’t any kind of polite interaction between Eleanor and Liam as she passes him, but he takes it in stride, nodding at her and closing the door once she’s finally gone. When he’s in the clear, and no one else is threatening to blow his fucking head off, Liam makes a great surge towards Zayn, hands seeking out the subtle yellowed bruises of Zayn’s face.

“I didn’t know,” he says while Zayn tries to survive from the shock of Liam this close to him, his reflection drowning in the crispness of Liam’s eyes. Never before has Zayn seen that amount of clarity, he drinks it in, wets his lips and tries to stay afloat with the weight of Liam’s body against his own. Liam does inventory, whispering apologies with the pads of his thumbs. “She saw you leave Tudor’s, said she would follow you just in case.” Liam’s eyes fall closed, Zayn watches his eyelashes land solidly on the mat of his cheeks, blue marks of fatigue illuminated the longer Zayn looks. “What were you thinking, working with Francis? You could have gotten killed.”

There’s a wreckage of Zayn’s nonchalance and Liam’s shaken worry, and when it collides, Liam opens his eyes to see if Zayn has taken in the severity of his actions. Zayn shrugs, takes a step back but keeps his fingers dug into the top of Liam’s arms. He shakes his head, tries to let things fall into place; tie Liam’s words with events and circumstances. “You were tailing me?”

“I wanted you to be safe,” sounds like an excuse, a rushed and hurried one that Zayn’s spit out enough times to swallow so easily.

Back and forth, his head falls this way and that, and Zayn does let go of Liam in time to catch his head in his hands, trying to shake some understanding there. Zayn needs to suss out Liam’s lies, he thinks. That can determine a number of things, Zayn’s ability to trust him included. “Does that mean you were in town, the whole time? The whole time, you never left.”

Liam nods and that’s all Zayn gets, all he must be worthy of—a nod. Liam tries to catch Zayn before he falls, but right now he’s alright. Zayn’s building himself back up, so he steps back. Because he doesn’t need Liam trying to fix him when he’s the fucking reason Zayn is broken.

“I knew you would do something stupid,” Liam tries, but Zayn takes to it just the same, backs away until he’s standing alone in the middle of the room, the walls doing a shit job of closing in on him when Liam’s busy backing him into a mental corner. “She wasn’t supposed to hurt you.”

 _You did,_ he’s guilty of thinking. _You fucking did, so why do you care if someone else had a hand in screwing me up?_

Zayn punches Liam.

He doesn’t know where it comes from—or he does, but Zayn never thought he’d express it this way—but it happens. Zayn’s fist connects with Liam’s cheek, and the sting in his knuckles goes unnoticed while Zayn does it again. And again, different fist. The way his head snaps back, Liam’s, is fucking horrible to watch. Liam’s teeth make a hole in his lip, the impact jarring his upright position and forcing him to stumble.

Zayn takes a step back, looks at the damage.

Its light, the fresh bruises along Zayn’s knuckles will look worse than the ones primed to bloom across the bridge of Liam’s nose. And the tops of his cheeks, shit, that’s gonna spread. “I’m sorry,” springs from Zayn’s throat. A reaction to the wince in Liam’s face as his fingers lift to survey the damage. “Shit, I’m really—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—that was uncalled for.” The ache of his bones catches up with him, and Zayn holds his knuckles along with his breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Keep going.” That’s not the shoe Zayn was anticipating, and it drops with an unsatisfactory thud. Liam is taking cautious steps, sliding the coffee table out of his way during his short trip to Zayn’s reaching distance. Zayn thinks that Liam’s going to touch him again with gentle hands, but he’s wrong. Hand over hand, Liam’s palms rest in a knot in front of him, shoulders stretched, and gaze forward. “I deserve it, okay—I know. I _hurt_ you.”

Zayn can read the hurt in his eyes, it reflects so harshly against the unforgiving posture of his stance. It’s then, with Liam’s eyes watery and apologetic with strong lines of discipline that Zayn realizes he’s been made into a soldier. She did what Zayn could never do _—never wanted to—_ she broke his mold and stripped away the soft tissue, leaving only structured and unbending bone.

Zayn swings.

He swings once for himself, because he wants Liam’s outside to match Zayn’s insides. He swings again for his father, and then for Liam. The punch that lands Liam on his side is for _her,_ for what she’s done—for what Zayn won’t be able to reverse in Liam because Zayn’s never been able to undo the damage done to himself.

The wreckage consists of a broken lamp and a scattered bottle of wine when Liam gets up, and Zayn’s hands stop him, forcing him to the ground because Zayn wants Liam to go under, to be covered when the storm hits. Zayn’s at his knees when he pounds away at Liam’s ribs, that’s for Eleanor, for the burden Liam left at her doorstep. And everything after that—the knee to the stomach and the right hook to the chest—it’s for _them._

Zayn will never sleep with both of his eyes closed. He’ll never know if he can turn around without Liam moving on to something else, something with more promise and less risk. The peace of mind for Liam’s safety was lost somewhere in between hushed phone calls and begging whispers. Zayn doesn’t want to carry it all, so he unleashes it, lets the tide of his anguish land on Liam’s cheeks and torso.

There’s a moment in his haze that saves them, a lifeline of breath that Zayn takes advantage of in an instant—Liam’s face. His blood spotting his face, distraught by the reappearance of Zayn’s split knuckles. And his eyes, closed because he can’t look at Zayn, and because one of them is shut, set to be swollen. But it’s his lips that draw Zayn’s attention—always that mouth—they’re moving, saying things that aren’t meant to be heard over the rush and rage running around in Zayn’s head, deafening him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, mumbles over and over again.

Zayn wants him to hurt, to be sorry.

But hearing it—shit—watching those words come out of Liam’s mouth with Zayn on top of him, fleshing out unspoken resentment, that’s different. This isn’t what he wants, not at all.

“Stop it,” Zayn yells. It’s a roar that’s impossible not to hear throughout the building. But Zayn knows no one will come in here, there isn’t a soul outside that door with the dare to spill out the unresolved issues being contained between the two of them in this room. “I fucking mean it, Liam. Stop it. _Stop._ ”

Zayn could be crying, or Liam’s blood could be staining his cheeks. It could be both. And if Zayn hasn’t already let the relief flood from his eyes, he knows he wants to. Liam shakes his head, like he needs to do this for himself, lie there and let Zayn hurt him for once, and he needs to be sorry all the while.

No, no. Fuck, no.

Zayn’s stopped, hasn’t the faintest idea how long he’s been sitting here, letting his tears pool into Liam’s neck while he sits above him and watches Liam relinquish his body for Zayn to bruise. He won’t, though. He won’t stop. Zayn can’t make him stop apologizing.

He barely recognizes his hands around Liam’s neck, red and cracked, but whole. Liam’s sputtering, but Zayn can’t stop. Neither can Liam. They’re at a standstill, Zayn with his bloodied fingers embedded in the skin of Liam’s throat while he utters words that Zayn thought he wanted to hear, but doesn’t.

“Please, stop,” Zayn begs, because it can be described as nothing else. A plea, a bargaining chip for Liam to draw full breaths of air. Liam’s tears wet Zayn’s fingers, rolling down his the sides of his face and pooling there with Zayn’s, creating a lake of sorrow that they could both easily drown in. “Baby, _please._ ”

Liam isn’t focused on breathing, just talking which so happens to require breath. _“I’m sorry.”_

Zayn can’t take his eyes away, it’s a wreck and people are dying— _they’re dying_ —but he can’t escape, he’s stuck right here, looking. Liam’s eyes never leave him, and he talks more, words that don’t have to be spoken to be heard. And they can’t live like this, Zayn suffocating him, but Liam is okay with that, Zayn can see it.

He knows that Liam would die like this, as long as Zayn took his apology, hid it deep in his heart.

Fucking stubborn kid.

Zayn gives him air, slides his hands away from Liam’s throat and fists his fingers in his shirt, pink and red and white. Liam breathes back, their lips sliding together, rust and love and fear coating their palettes. It’s an exchange of oxygen that supplies as a kiss. It’s sloppy and Liam is holding on, hands at Zayn’s hips, harsh and bruising, because that’s his lifeline.

It’s the scariest thing, needing someone else to survive.

“Don’t leave me,” Zayn says, moving away, resting his head on the finger-shaped bruises he’s left behind. “Never again, don’t leave.”

“Okay.”

It’s only after they get up and dust themselves off that Zayn recognizes the bruises around Liam’s neck as the same ones Liam left behind on Zayn’s heart.

**/////**

“Where are we going?”

Liam makes a sharp turn, lets go of Zayn’s hand long enough to steer them left. He threads their fingers afterwards, and Zayn pummels the excitement fluttering inside his stomach until his reaction is limited to breaching the corners of his mouth. “If you came back to kill me, you could have rose’d me last night when you had your dick in my mouth.”

Zayn had begged for answers the night before, but Liam was all about showing, not telling.

They both have the bruises from the night before to prove that.

“Classy as ever,” Liam replies around a cough, taking them into the heart of London. The houses are too square, and the families in their front yards and large picture windows freak Zayn out, make him shift in his seat on the sly, ankles crossing in the floorboard. Liam’s grip tightens, nails digging in the slightest to pull Zayn away from thoughts he doesn’t fancy having _—how does he fucking know._ Zayn doesn’t know if Liam’s addressing the crudity or the adversity towards whole family units when he says, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

The razorblade of worry knicks at the base of Zayn’s throat, and he doesn’t quite manage to seal his lips in time to put a stop to the doubt fogging in his head. “Have you?” Zayn asks, needing to know. “Have you changed, Liam?”

When Liam takes his eyes away from the road ahead of them to look at Zayn, he wants to say it’s with full reassurance, but it’s a decision taken with too much backlash, so Zayn ignores the nagging and runs his thumb over the dips and ridges of Liam’s knuckles. “I’m the same guy,” he explains. “I just have a clearer head. What I want is easier to see now.”

“And that would be?”

Liam nods like he expects Zayn’s harsh stance on his recants. The imagery around them delves deeper into that of Suburbia, signs of old and wise money gone in exchange for brand new houses with electronic fences and medium height shrubbery to shield from prying neighbors and be able to peer outside yourself.

Zayn grows restless waiting for answers, and now, Liam’s long fingers wrapped around his own do nothing to soothe him. “You and me. Us, safe. The real us, with a fresh start. That’s what I want.”

A fresh start is a _joke,_ it means Zayn is going to have to compromise something he loves in favor of a hopeful future, one promised to him by new faces and powdered lies. Fresh start, that usually means feds. Zayn wiggles in his seat a little more, curious as to where exactly Liam is taking them, and why he’s using words of a federal agent.

He’s going to get us all killed, he thinks.

They’re all gonna die as rats.

“Am I supposed to want that, too?” Zayn only asks because he’s not sure if he likes the way Liam is insinuating that what they had before was fake, not genuine. He can assure Liam that it was very real—the love, the heartache, the pain, the relief—all very real.

“I don’t think you’d be here if you didn’t.”

Zayn finds the anger again, the irritation at being felt out and told what he’s feeling. He breaks away from Liam, palms ripping apart, the tear slicing both their smiles in two. There’s a link—a connection of reactions—that land Zayn’s fingers in his hair, clenching and pulling with exasperation, but he doesn’t care to find it.

“Is it really so— _fuck._ I want you, too. Safe. All I want is for the both of us to be safe, and together or-fuck, something like that.” His thoughts are jumbled and Zayn doesn’t appreciate the creeping of a smile etching it’s way onto Liam’s face. “Just keep driving,” he demands, hand spread as it slaps on the dashboard. “You’re not going out of my sight, that’s all this is about. I’m not letting you out of my sight; because that’s the only way I know how to keep you safe. That doesn’t mean I want to be a snitch. We’re through talking about this, so just drive.”

“You’re the one that brought it up.”

Zayn thinks of several replies, but none of them gain him any points on scales of wit or snarky brevity, so he stays silent. It’s quiet in the next minutes that pass, their car dwindling down suburban roads until Zayn isn’t sure how they’re supposed to get out if they take any more turns. He wonders if that’s the plan—to lose Zayn and his sense of direction so he can’t lead teams in to slaughter the cesspool of new-age minds that Liam is drowning in.

Their lips only move to pass judgment on Liam’s driving and Zayn’s nit-picking. Overdrive is the only speed his mind knows as Zayn processes what seems to be the scenic route of their destination. He isn’t ignoring his text messages because he doesn’t have anything to hide. And if he did—he doesn’t though, just has to field questions from Eleanor and the men under his thumb—concealing his phone under his thigh won’t do him any favors.

“Eleanor doesn’t trust me,” Liam says, more of a statement that an inquisition after Zayn pulls his phone out for the fifth time since their departure from Eleanor’s apartment—where they crashed the night before, deeming it the safest place.

She’s not the only one, Zayn thinks. But only thinks it, won’t say it, not now.

“You’re pulling disappearing acts—all Jason Bourne and shit—you can’t really blame her for not wanting you in the club where our girls Hoover cocks in the back.”

Zayn thinks that maybe Liam wants to remind him that MVP is _their_ club, but he doesn’t say that, just nods. His nod turns into a furious shake, and his hand flexes around the wheel. “I would never—”

Zayn swoops in, stops Liam with a wave of silence and weaves their fingers together to quell whatever line of defense about to make its way into the stale air around them. He looks out of the window in favor of looking at Liam, knowing his glare won’t be as sharp or reprimanding as intended. “It looks like we’re here. We’ll finish this up later, yeah?”

That seems to distract him, Liam’s eyes bug and the hair of his brows makes an attempt to blend with that of his hairline. “How do you know we’re here?”

“Might have something to do with you stopping, or the overly vague house to my left.” He squeezes Liam’s hand, hoping to squash any heat between them, leaving only the bare necessities of love and hopefulness—fuck, Zayn hates the way that sounds. Shaking his own head to dislodge thoughts of fucking rainbows and pretty flowers of unity, he opens his car door the second Liam parks, unthreading their hands and moving out. “Blending is an art, and your friends have pretty much overdone it.”

All Liam does is make an inviting circle with his mouth that Zayn supposes might be shock, and get out of the vehicle on his side. He closes his door and meets Zayn near the headlights, finding Zayn’s hand and tugging.

Zayn only does one thorough sweep to seek out peering eyes, and calms when he remembers that anyone who sees him will never watch his face go past again. This isn’t his type of neighborhood, and the people that live in these homes aren’t Zayn’s type of people.

The house isn’t intimidating, though Zayn guesses that’s the point. He stops at the gate, notes that it’s smaller than the rest, privacy limited both ways. It’s most likely to see out of, to view without being noticed balancing a glance over a tall shrubbery. But it also leaves it inhabitants unprotected, a detail that might want to be reviewed again. It’s just not practical.

When Liam lurches forward and Zayn stays behind, their hands a pivot of movement for the both of them, Liam looks back, eyes worried. Or hurt, he’s not sure. Zayn shrugs. “Are you sure you want me inside? Can you not handle it? ‘S it really necessary for me to be in there with you to hold your hand?”

Zayn does his best pretending, or maybe it’s his worst—because Liam smiles at him and pulls him along, hander this time. He’s not even deterred by Zayn’s second glance around the block. “I’ve got someone I want you to properly meet.”

Liam walks them up a driveway with an even number of potted plants in alignment to the yard and the number of cars—four. The beams are painted white on the porch, and there isn’t a step Zayn makes that causes a creek on his way to the door. A lion’s head takes the shape of their doorknocker, familiar, nothing that draws too much attention. Zayn swallows and tries to remember the road they last turned on—Wicker. The house is addressed in gold letters—123.

The covering of the house is beige, and Zayn really, really doesn’t want to be here.

Liam just walks in, doesn’t knock. And Zayn finds himself wanting to know how long he’s been doing that—opening this door without a warning. If he knows everyone inside, and how comfortable are they with Liam barging in uninvited. And does the invitation he so obviously has extends to visitors?

It’s a nice home—house, it’s a house—but it’s stiff, lacks the livelihood of a place that’s held people attached to memories, people with lives and recollections. The items inside are overly placed, the distinct cutout of the rug lining the stairs, and the angle of each knack on the foyer table perfect. There’s a blonde woman sitting on the couch, unmoving sans for a small nod in greeting and a dart of eyes to the alternate exit leading to the kitchen. Zayn holds Liam’s hand tighter when he doesn’t see any dust, not on the end tables or filtering through the rays cutting in from the windows.

No scuff marks.

No noise.

Zayn swallows and follows the movement of the blonde, the only person there besides Zayn and Liam—who’s looking around and trying to drag Zayn up the stairs. Zayn doesn’t move, keeps looking at the girl, who refuses to return his gaze. He’s aware of the crude message that comes with staring, but he’s trying to remember. That face, he knows it. It’s not her, but it’s someone. Someone Zayn’s brain is telling him is important.

He promises to reevaluate the planes of her face at a later date, for now he has to stay put, focus on staying right here, next to the door Liam is trying to pull him away from. His fingers float away from the shackles of Liam’s hand when he hears movement at the top of the stairs, falling to the cold steel of his reinforcements at his back. “Who else is here?”

“Zayn, it’s okay. She’s just—”

She.

She surfaces. Right there in this house, full of unrecognized threats. Zayn should have known—did know, really—that she would be here. It’s obvious with her involvement, but Zayn didn’t want to ask questions last night, mostly because he was afraid that Liam would give him some. Answers to questions he doesn’t even know to ask. Answers that would make Zayn’s ears bleed, and his brain fry. This place, this house—brimming with ignorant tranquility while a monster resides inside—Zayn wants to cleanse it.

Purify his mistakes.

Ones he won’t be making again.

Zayn scans her for weapons—no thigh holder, no uneven hip bulges from a gun, feet socked without a compartment for a knife—and then he draws his own.

Liam backs away, fucking stands in between the two of them like he’s _protecting her._ Like she needs protecting. She’s smiling, Zayn can see it from here. And the only satisfaction Zayn has is gained from the split in her lip, one that matches his own. The bandage on her forehead doesn’t make him feel too shabby either, nor does the evidence of her face against the pavement in splotched scabs that go uncovered.

She looks like she should, disgusting and brutal. Like a beast left uncaged.

“Zayn! Put it away, we’re not alone.”

Liam’s high tone should alert him, the worry there. Because they come out of the fucking wood work, arms and legs and bodies—and that fucking blonde bitch—all of them pointing barrels at Zayn. Let the bullets fly, he finds himself thinking, not caring. Zayn will be full of metal, but she’ll be dead, he won’t miss. He never, ever fucking misses.

She won’t be an exception again.

“Calm down, boys.” Zayn wants a bullet to cut across the vindication of her turned up lips. “You all know Zayn, he’s _harmless._ ”

The put their weapons away, two on either side of Zayn and three more on the stairs behind her. _Red._ Zayn wants her to see how harmless he is, bust her lip again. But he has a point to make, small talk exchanged during less than fatal blows to the face and stomach aren’t in his nature. Luck graced her side before, allowed them to come face to face without the weight of Zayn’s gun in his hand.

That’s not the case, now.

“Didn’t get a chance to catch your name,” he says, because Zayn wants to know—wants to hear it from her—the name of the girl he’s putting a bullet in.

She rolls her eyes—Zayn’s eyes, his mirrored reflection of sass he doesn’t appreciate being on the receiving end of. When she moves, Zayn cocks his Glock higher, straighter. He moves closer, too. It doesn’t suit him to appear having the lower hand. Liam tries to get in his way, but Zayn moves him without a hand, does so with a look.

“You had your knee in my back,” she slews around smiling lips. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you.”

He snorts, doesn’t lower his weapon. “Only fair, you had your foot in my mouth.”

“Well, you talk a lot of shit.”

Zayn’s grip doesn’t falter, and he tries to think—is he ready to die? To shoot her and be shot?

He doesn’t want Liam to watch, would turn over in his grave at the burden Zayn’s set upon his shoulders. There has to be another way. He swallows out of fear for Liam, what will happen if this plays out properly. “Look,” he stumbles for a name, but goes on. “If you want to finish where we left off—”

“Veronica.” She stops, grips the thick, oak handle of the staircase and moves her hand slowly. “You can call me Veronica.”

Zayn unlocks his safety when she reaches around her back, but she’s not moving fast enough to kill him, so he waits, watches her wave Liam over—stupid fucking boy—until he’s close enough to retrieve the .38 out from the waistband of her pants. “You got a last name, or is it just Veronica?”

He knows what she’s going to say before she has a chance to smirk around her words. “Malik.”

But he’s ready, not willing to fall to a volley of lies intended to get him to drop his defenses. Zayn sneers at her sarcastically, not falling for her trickery. “It’s always nice to meet a long lost cousin.”

“Sister,” she corrects with a slow spreading grin. “I’m your sister.”

No, no. Zayn won’t pursue this line of insanity. He knows that she won’t go out with a bullet, evil resurrects. He won’t hide behind a weapon of cowardice, he’ll settle this as a savage. Monster _vs._ Monster.

“I don’t have a sister.”

“You do now.”

Zayn shakes his head, smiles at the cleverness she thinks she possesses. “Not for long.”

And he lunges.

**/////**

Zayn makes the mistake of thinking that he has the element of surprise on his side. When, in reality his attack is most likely expected. In the short time it takes him to sheath his gun in the back of Liam’s jeans and move halfway up the staircase, Veronica—finally, a fucking name—has moved. She ducks when he takes a swing at her, and Zayn’s semblance of balance is almost lost when Veronica’s leg unfolds from her kneeling position on the stairs to reach Zayn where he’s standing one step down. And the kick has enough power to make Zayn stumble.

Zayn’s surprised that her cavalry doesn’t interfere, even more jostled that Liam doesn’t move—is only a whining, vocal protest in their ears—when Zayn gains his balance faster than Veronica is hoping for, and it’s almost too easy for him to grab a hold of her neck. In front of all these people, Zayn doesn’t want to yank at her hair, but the grip on the back of Veronica’s throat does give Zayn a much needed advantage.

His sneer is dirty and cold and _satisfied_ at the cracks made by the collision of Veronica’s forehead and the banister. But his victory is short lived and Zayn’s adrenaline makes him blind to the hand that reaches around to pinch the nerve towards the back of his knee. Sure he’s going to fall, Zayn tries to take Veronica with him. He’s not going down on his own, not a chance.

They find a lofty cushion in each other as they roll the last three steps, the tumble of limbs making everyone take a step back. He can hear Liam, sees him even, struggling against the arms of a team of men and that blonde bitch that Zayn just can’t place, _dammit._

There was a time—when Zayn wasn’t chalk full of past betrayals—that he would jump to Liam’s defense, but he’s safer this way, out of reach from the dangerous clutches of Zayn and his…nightmare.

There’s no time to catch his breath, he doesn’t assume Veronica will take the time to rest, so Zayn moves first, uncaring of the obvious bodies she has at the ready to make a move on her behalf. The gash on her forehead drips accordingly—red, like the aura Zayn sees in his nightly terrors—but it doesn’t stop Veronica from shifting out of the way, so Zayn’s hands can’t reach her.

He doesn’t have enough time to throw a leg over her body to pin her down, but Zayn’s already on his knees when Veronica rolls over into the bottom of the stairs. That allows him a window of seconds to drag her near him by the wool of her sweater. It rips in his hands per her resistance and Liam’s yelling at the both of them to stop. Fuck if it isn’t distracting.

“This has to happen,” she says with a cough, the messy streams of blood slithering into the sides of her mouth. Zayn lies on his back to allow his legs the angle needed to leave the indentation of his foot at her back.

“Stop fucking talking,” Zayn snarls with less than graceful simplicity on his way to his feet.

“You can’t kill me,” and Veronica’s underestimating him, because that’s Zayn’s main goal. One he won’t change, no matter the length or quantity of Liam’s background pleas.

His mind screams traitor and that makes the glide of his foot at her back much smoother, easier to execute. Only, Veronica’s not on the ground anymore by the time his foot slams forward and Zayn’s toes meet the unkind pine of the bottom step. Zayn recovers a hair too late, and that provides his slick-haired assailant all the time in the world to stand up and right Zayn’s temporarily hunched body and wind her arm around his neck.

The soles of his feet drag, she creates enough space between their bodies not to allow Zayn the leverage he needs to flip her weight off his back. Veronica’s moving him, taking Zayn through the crowd that parts without a glance from her. They move away from her in fear, and Zayn doesn’t know a lot of things right now—that he can barely breathe and his eyes are watering trying to get a last glimpse of Liam—and that they’re scared.

Zayn has to look at Liam, a yelling and crying mess. He has trouble drawing breath, the journey only lasts for a second, but his mind’s eye moves honey slow, churning and dripping by while Zayn’s eyes focus on the myriad of bruises around Liam’s neck. And his cheeks. That will be the last thing he ever sees, because Zayn has no doubt he’s being dragged off to die.

Their collective reason to keep Zayn alive doesn’t suffice now that he’s caused them so much trouble.

“I love you,” Zayn chokes out, he doesn’t have to look at Liam to direct it, there’s no one else here that holds his affection. Not the henchmen hovering at Veronica’s sides or the estranged sibling wiped from his memory. “Li—I love—I love you.”

It comes out wheezy, and Zayn’s ears barely register any noise over the blood rushing to his head; _throb, throb, throb._

He still scrambles, Zayn won’t give up his life just because he’s stuck in a difficult position, he’s come so fucking far. But it’s rendered pointless and he’s at the door of his doom. From the inside someone turns a knob and Zayn wouldn’t put it past Veronica to have had this all planned. Right down to the time the door needed to be opened and shut. To the punches Zayn threw, and the tears Liam shed.

Zayn bubbles with fury, hands grasping to relinquish Veronica’s firm hold on his throat. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, I pr—promise.”

It’s a stretch for Zayn to talk with her forearm barely allowing air to his lungs, but if those are his last words, he wants his final uttering to be a pledge he intends to keep somewhere between here and his execution chair. A man laughs behind her, and god bless Veronica’s need to turn and award him with a look that commands he shut the fuck up. Because there’s an opening, and small as it may be, it’s still present. And Zayn jumps through to grab the opportunity on the other side.

He can’t care about how hard and long the fall will be.

The chuckling asshole has a gun at his waist—the same standard issue Zayn’s eyed at all their waists. They peacock with them, strutting without concern for grasping hands. Veronica’s grip doesn’t give Zayn the room to get away, but it allows him the space to wiggle and reach out. He grabs the weapon and gets off a shaky shot, shooting fast and loud and sloppy.

The bullet doesn’t kill, makes a nice hole in the guy’s cheek, but Zayn didn’t have the stance to aim or the time to complain of the outcome.

Veronica startles, because apparently the blood of another human being actually concerns her. She’s sick and shuttering and it’s all so fast, Zayn’s head sliding out from under her weakened grip. He shoves her into the room before the masses have time to register and resurge. Zayn slams the door behind him and makes quick work of the only other person in attendance.

One bullet, plenty of brains. Zayn doesn’t have time to think about what he’s doing before he’s fired and a soul is left without a body.

“ _Oh my God,_ ” Veronica trembles, stuttering for words and a grip of reality when the spatter on the wall contains grotesque pieces of brain and hair attached to misplaced skull fragments. Zayn’s not naïve enough to think he can stop now, and later on that will terrify him—that he can slice a bullet through someone’s lifespan and not blink as he aligns Veronica with the door. “Zayn, you _killed_ her.”

She can’t take her eyes away, and when Zayn looks over, he kind of feels sad.

Blonde and berth and clean cut, it’s a woman, and she’s dead now—a sacrifice in Veronica’s name.

The gun in Zayn’s hand is an unregistered weight, but finally, he’s being taken serious. Her shudders, little dry whimpers, are extraordinarily real. Her eyes never leave the still warm corpse of the body Zayn thinks might have housed her friend. “ _You_ killed her,” Zayn corrects, gun tapping again at the base of her skull. “This is all you, Veronica.”

Zayn hears bodies move on the other side. But none of that, though, is loud enough to drown out the chuckle of amazement coming from the girl in front of him. Veronica’s pressed against their barrier and Zayn now keeps the gun at her back where he’s twisted her arms to rest behind her. She laughs again, and that’s what makes Zayn’s stomach turn, finally.

It’s not in Veronica’s nature to be sorry a girl is dead. She doesn’t mourn because a woman lies lifeless due to her ties to the real monster in the room, that’s not where Veronica’s shell-shocked muttering comes from. She’s in awe that Zayn pulled the trigger. He shakes his head, _selfish_.

Zayn can’t focus on her hysterical laughter, it makes him queasy, instead he turns his attention to the uproar on the other side of the door. Not wanting them to get any fast ideas, Zayn racks Veronica against the door, garnering their attention. “Your hive queen is standing in the door way, so whatever plan you’ve decided on, I hope it doesn’t involve shooting down the door.”

There’s a hum across the wood, and Veronica must know her crew well because she shouts as loud as she can wither face pressed into the door, lips barely moving around her words. Zayn looks around the room, does a thorough surveying before determining that he’s safe with the only other entrance being a small window at the top of the wall. He must not have realized that he was sloping downwards when he was being dragged down the hall. It wouldn’t be an easy feat to worm his way out, but he wasn’t concerned about leaving this room with breath in his lungs.

“He’s not lying, fall back.”

“Boss—”

“I said fall back,” it’s a show, and Zayn watches her fill her voice with faux remorse as she talks, the muscles in her cold and unfeeling face betraying her. “He killed Candace,” she dry-sobs, and he flexes his fingers around the butt of the gun, _fuck._ She’s no good to Zayn unconscious, but he really would like to see her fall to her knees with a bullet between the eyes that shed fake tears, never to wake up again. “Move back, okay? Those are _orders._ ”

It’s not silent, Liam can be heard begging over the noise, begging for Zayn. For him to stop, to _listen_. The hard sole of Zayn’s shoe drowns that out, he focuses on the _tap, tap, tap._ “Protocol says—”

“He will kill me if you don’t—”

Zayn leans on her, lets his weight strain the blades of her shoulders. He doesn’t need to move her hair back from her ear to speak; Zayn knows she’ll hear him. “I’m killing you whether they shoot me afterwards or not.”

The parallel of them calling shots at a second rank is not hidden, it’s very obvious that someone else is pulling the strings here, but she’s a shot caller. Of that, Zayn holds a limited amount of doubt. It sickens him, the thought that his blood may run through her veins, that they share something other than hatred for one another.

She doesn’t laugh, but Zayn can tell she wants to. “You really think Liam can live with that guilt?”

Zayn’s intentions don’t lie in killing her when he shoots then, but seeing and hearing the contortions of what she thinks is her last breath, that warms him. He’s the one wanting to laugh now. The scream she lets out at bullet passing by her head curdles the boiling blood thrumming through Zayn’s veins. The blood she wants him to believe they share.

Veronica pants heavily and Zayn doesn’t have to look over the matte of her hair to see that her ear is busted, bleeding at the proximity of a fired handgun. When she opens her eyes, they’re teary and she can’t help but wince at the shards of splintered wood that have found their way into certain crevices of her cheeks. Zayn’s sure more pine fragments wedge into the upper dermis of her delicate face.

“Any guilt that falls on Liam is your doing, you understand?” It’s pathetic and satisfying how she cowers, nods and swallows and accepts any words that Zayn chooses to spit at her. “Your rag tag team of vigilantes isn’t going to make Liam hate his surrogate father. It’s going to get him _killed._ ”

 _She has to die,_ Zayn has no other choice. You cut off the head of the beast, and all that.

His phone is shattered, the screen cuts his thumb just as he’s fishing it from his pocket. Luckily enough, he knows how to get a call out, and he’s slipping it back into his pocket for safekeeping, trying not to recognize the pain at the back of his leg while he shifts and uses Veronica’s face to plug the hole he’s blown into the door.

She doesn’t even have time to turn and survey his actions while she whimpers apologies to Zayn and orders to her team, it’s Zayn’s own little secret.

“We won’t let Liam get hurt, you either, I promis—”

Zayn is obligated to stop her right there—he can’t shoot, he’s saving bullets for his grand exit—but he doesn’t need to discharge to pistol-whip her and slide her empty promises back into her mouth. Veronica won’t get the easy way out, _no._ Zayn picks her up when she slides to her knees, this isn’t a TV drama, and he’s not stupid enough to think she’s out for the count.

He draws her up by the shoulders, as much as he can with a gun in the expanse of his palm. “No promises. I don’t want to fucking hear your promises, Veronica. Your promises mean _shit_ to me.”

She’s groggy, but she responds with a nod, and Zayn lets her sag against the door, never once underestimating the advantage of skill she has over him. Her face is red, and when she drifts away from the door her blood paints a trail down the wood, then back up when she’s standing with Zayn’s support.

“I don’t want your promises, okay? I want a way to get Liam away from all of you, no repercussions.” They both listen to Liam on the other side of the door, and if this room wasn’t meant to keep people inside—solid trimming and one secure window—he’s sure they would have figured a way to get in by now. “You come in here with some kind of score to settle because you grew up with no Mommy and Daddy? Well, I’m over it, this ends _today._ ”

Golden words must have fallen from his tongue. Where her lips were closed shut with the own rust-red damage of her actions against Zayn, they open, splitting whatever seal had materialized there, and Zayn thinks she finally looks like the monster she is. Gross and disgusting and as bruised on the outside as she must be in the depths of her soul. “I have a dad, you bastard.”

“Well, so do I.”

She’s withholds enough strength to shake her head, and Zayn wants to make her regret it before she opens her mouth to spew whatever hate she has aimed at Zayn’s heart. “You have an _associate._ ”

Dammit, dammit. He’s not supposed to make a mess of her, but Zayn has to clock her against the door, and he doesn’t feel anything as his own flesh and blood bleeds in front of his eyes, smiles at him with red and white teeth and laughs because she thinks she’s gotten to Zayn. She thinks that she’s won, because she’s used to winning.

She always wins, gets away.

Zayn slams her again when she brings her knee up and winds him, digging her joint in his stomach and extending a kick that sends him backwards. She can’t do anything afterwards, but the thrill of surprising him spirals laughter at the back of her throat. He’s up and in her face again, wiping the fresh gurgling of blood from the corners of her mouth before his hand makes its way to her throat. He pulls her forward and slams her back again, and this time her fight to stay conscious is a little more vicious.

Nothing, he can’t feel any of it—he’s numb.

“I’m getting really tired of you running your mouth about things you know fuck all about.” Zayn speaks and Veronica moves her knee again, and he almost forgoes not shooting it off. “Your gang wants intel? Your brand new Pops find out who you were and plant you on the road to revenge?” Zayn is the one laughing, because it’s a pathetic ploy, a weak one. “Gather himself a band of brothers that are going to take down an empire with the knowledge inside the head of a pair of adopted kids?”

“Band of brothers,” she interrupts with a laugh.

“What’s funny, bitch?”

“That you, _shit,_ ” she pauses to cough, and Zayn eases up, lets her breathe because he needs her alive to talk. “That you think you’re _clever._ ” She’s a mess, broken and bloodied and bruised and Zayn can’t find a bean of sympathy to sprout inside of himself. “That you think you won’t do _exactly_ what you’re told.”

“And what makes you think that? What makes you think that either one of us are going to leave this room to take orders ever again?”

She acknowledges the body to their right for the first time since Zayn dropped her. There’s no stench, she has only been dead for the ticking minutes that Zayn has used the filth in his fingers as a beckoning shield. Veronica nods at her and the realization that someone’s mother and daughter and wife lay with no life warming her fingertips—the fact that this doesn’t bother Zayn or his sister—it makes him want to bend over and empty the pit of his stomach.

“Look at her,” it’s not a request. And with Zayn’s fingers tightening around her neck, she suits up. Grabs Zayn’s jacket and tears his eyes away from the steel of his twisted sibling. When he murmurs that he doesn’t want to—fuck, _no._ Zayn doesn’t dwell on things he can’t change so he won’t look. “You _look at_ _her._ ”

Zayn’s eyes drag the carpet, and he looks.

His gun doesn’t mean much, not when her hands are long and strong in his shirt. And the two of them are broken shards of glass from the same mirror, looking at the reflection of the things they’ve done. Zayn’s not sure who is holding up the other, but she’s not strong enough to keep herself from buckling under. So Veronica bows her head on her shoulder like a child, and she whispers. “Does she look like she belongs to a street gang, _brother?_ ”

He doesn’t chastise her and tell her not to fucking _call him that_ , because he’s looking. Zayn’s looking long and hard at the button up collar of her splattered shirt. At the strands pulled back before Zayn shot a bullet into her skull. At the handgun with its own holster at her hip, standard issue. No, no. No, no, _no._ “You fucking bitch.”

Regaining his stance isn’t difficult, Zayn washes away his guilt with a dose of hard-driven hatred for the organization that’s trying to swallow him and his family whole. He’d had suspicions, but this place is crawling with replicas of the dead chick cooling in his peripherals.

Veronica cackles at him with Zayn’s hand wrapped around her throat. “You just killed a federal agent, do you really want to kill another?”

Yes, the answer to that question is _yes._ And he really, really hopes that the person on the other end of Zayn’s silent phone call has gotten the message to the right person, because he needs to get out of here. He needs to go, very far away.

Zayn had heard about his father—their father—being a narc, a real hard ass lawman. The whispers have never intrigued him, and Zayn doesn’t see that changing now. But it does give him more perspective on the incentives Veronica has. “So I take it you followed in your real dad’s footsteps? You’re a fucking pig—should have seen that coming.”

There are so many things Zayn doesn’t remember, memories that burned with his mother and the man who fathered him. Gave a contribution of DNA because Zayn didn’t see him at the end. He’s never in any of Zayn’s dreams to play the hero, and Veronica, she’s the villain. She grew with Zayn’s mind, and she’s appallingly real standing in front of him. They share a nose and a set of eyes, but the sides of the coin they were raised on are different.

“He moved on up, Zayn.” She makes Zayn’s head hurt, makes his brain throb because how can Veronica fucking talk right now, busted up like she is? The bulk of her head lolls to one side, and she’s shooting shit now, rambling to maybe save her life. Or further endanger it. Zayn can still hear her men— _fucking feds_ —on the other side of the door, bustling, looking for a way to extract their agent.

“He rings bells for Interpol now. Looked for your ungrateful ass all over the world, drug me along with him.” Veronica coughs, and there isn’t a second that Zayn underestimates her, even with her delusional carrying on. He won’t fall prey to any distractions. “When it was clear you were under our nose the whole time, dad begged for the case.”

He scoffs, not wanting to swallow any more discoveries today. “Your dad is dead, Veronica. He burned with your mother.”

“Your mother, too.”

No, not another secret. _No._ Zayn wonders if he shoots Veronica, if it ends here with her. “I got a Nan, that’s about it.”

Zayn sees his anger in her, and it’s nasty. It’s a budding hatred that can kill you, one that he harbors towards her, towards the people standing outside that door waiting for Veronica to call out orders of extraction. Her words filter around the poison she injects into the air. “You have kidnappers—murderers that have _brainwashed_ you.”

Zayn’s not buying it. He can’t let Veronica eat away at the love Zayn has for the people she’s speaking of. “I’m not taking the word of a dead man.”

Or that of a soon to be dead woman.

“Yaser is very much alive, Zayn.” She’s dropped her last bomb, and she’s silly with it. There are laces of joy stringing Zayn up and she pulls the strings of his curiosity. “He wants to meet you, you know? You’re _our_ family, not theirs. Blood is thicker than _anything._ ”

Zayn laughs at her desperation, at all the secrets she’s unraveling in her attempt to live—to sway Zayn from the edge he’s about to jump over when he pulls the trigger. “We can put Simon behind bars, Zayn. He’ll never hurt the two of you again. We can—”

“We can what?” When she slides again down the door Zayn offers her a hand to secure her balance, then laughs at the jaded betrayal that frowns back at him when he bats her hand away and withdraws his own. Zayn looks at her incredulously, stepping to the side, away from the gaping hole in the door. And away from the broken wreck that is somehow a part of him. “You want to be a happy family, Veronica? That what you want to give me?”

Her eyes are closed and the time ticks by—Zayn knows it’s been long enough for a trace, he just has to wait for his exit horse to arrive. “We can,” she says from where she’s hunched, and he can tell that it hurts her more to look weak in front of him that it does to actually be hurt. “Liam can come, too. Love is love.”

_Ridiculous._

“Liam may fall for that happy endings shit, but I’m getting laid without being a snitch.” Her ploy to play on his emotions for Liam is weak, but she’s been doing it for weeks now, maybe longer. This is just the first time she’s been able to slather _him_ with the threat of withdrawn cuddles and hugs and whatever the fuck she thinks exists between Zayn and the man on the other side of that door. “So I really don’t give a fuck if you wear your PFLAG on the front of your shirt, I don’t give a shit.”

She nods, and Zayn is running out of time. “I’ve come to know Liam. We all love him around here.” Veronica raises her fingers to rub her throat while she tries to rise to a squat. “That’s all I’m trying to say.”

He pushes her down, can’t help it, squats to her level so her rent-a-cops don’t get the jump on him. Zayn wants to look her in the eyes— _his eyes_ —wants Veronica to see the severity of the damage she’s caused. “He’s going to die.”

She starts shaking her head, but Zayn stills her, starts counting so he can leave on time, and then forces her mouth open. Her jaw locks, but Zayn manages to open her lips and teeth around the barrel of a gun that recently maimed one of her collogues and permanently fucked up another.

He wonders if the gunpowder tastes anything like remorse.

“It’s going to be bloody and _horrible,_ and your _entire fault._ ” Zayn has to come to grips with the words that he’s saying, the fact that they’re all true. Tears don’t roll down his face, but he can feel it in his chest, the grief of a man with a death sentence. “I’ll protect him for as long as I can, run across the entire world with bullets at my back, but they’re going to find me. And they’ll peel every layer of _skin_ from my body for even _speaking_ to you, and not killing you on sight.” She’s crying now, and Zayn knows they’re tears of crocodiles, she’s afraid to die, and that’s it. Unconvinced of her remorse, Zayn continues. “They’ll do that until I either die, or tell them every single thing I know. Then they’ll kill Liam, because I will never, _ever_ be able to pull us far enough from the backlash of a federal case, which is what I’m assuming you’re trying to build.

“From the time it takes Liam to sign whatever _bullshit_ statement he has about what he’s seen, which is nothing, I can assure you—circumstantial at best—to the time it takes you to get a future witness to the trial, he’ll be _in a ditch_ somewhere,” and Zayn has to swallow that truth on his own, and Veronica gets to cry around the berth of a gun over a boy she doesn’t actually know. “Because my father doesn’t bury snitches with _dignity_ , Veronica. If Liam testifies against Simon, he won’t be buried at all, just dead.”

Zayn wonders if Liam can hear him, wonders if it would make a difference if he could.

Veronica is blubbering, and it’s embarrassing to watch. To see a pillar of strength break so easily. Zayn knows he can’t pull the trigger, doesn’t kid himself. There’s a sweeter target he needs to set his sights on. She’s the smoking gun, but Zayn wants the shooter. His family’s saving grace lies in the head of the man who put Veronica on the path towards Zayn.

That’s the only way Zayn can save them, Liam and Simon and the rest of his family. His real family.

And then Zayn can put a bullet in her. Right between her lying eyes.

“I’m sparing your life right now because I want the both of us to be around for later.” She nods, but Zayn’s not sure she understands. Veronica wants to live, and she’ll do anything to ensure her safety from the other side. “You keep trying to hurt my family, and I’m going to wipe you off the map.”

She spits out the gun, it’s for show, though, because Zayn was leaving anyway, taking the weapon with him. Veronica sneers at him from the floor. “Simon tried to do that, Zayn. It didn’t fucking work.”

He’s glad to see her mouth has returned. “I’m not Simon.”

“You’ll never get out the front,” she assures him when he eyes the door.

Zayn slides the table in the middle of the room to the side of the wall with the small, one way window. “Weren’t you just the one talking about my glittery lifestyle, _sister_?” Zayn shakes his head and reminds her of the gun in his hand when she tries to move. “You should know I’m going out the back.”

Veronica won’t be down for long, she’s capable of walking and hitting and moving her arms. The pain to her face must be crucial, and Zayn doesn’t imagine her busted ear is doing her any favors, but she’ll be up soon enough, back at full capacity. And Zayn doesn’t want to be around for that.

She won’t try to catch him, and she’ll let him leave, because Veronica houses want in her heart. Want for the chase and the catch, and she’ll let him leave her battered and bruised if it means he can live to die another day.

She cradles her face while Zayn climbs atop the tabletop, peeking out to assure a clean get away, tucking the gun at the back of his trousers should he meet trouble once he lands on the ground.

Veronica makes one last verbal attempt to chain Zayn to the ground. “You just killed one of our own, what makes you think we won’t do the same if you leave Liam behind?”

“You won’t hurt Liam, you’re one of the good guys.”

**//////**

“Did you do it?”

Zayn taps the dashboard frantically, takes one look behind and sighs in relief when he gets into the seat. He doesn’t know how much longer he can take the pain in his ribs and his knee. “Couldn’t kill her, drive.”

He buckles his seatbelt and thanks whatever god is listening for an intelligence consultant who knows how to trace a phone call, and a best friend whose nosy enough to include herself into all parts of Zayn’s personal life.

Eleanor nods. “You got it, boss.”

**/////**

Eleanor is not nurse certified, but she patches Zayn up great. Once the adrenaline is gone it all hurts—his stomach, his head, his back. The club is still closed, and Zayn knows he’ll have to dip into his own money to cover this week’s shy and next week’s reopening. The thrum of people vibrating around him doesn’t put him at ease, but they do bring him back to his tasks at hand.

They think Tudor’s men did this—took Zayn in the middle of the day and battered him up, and that Zayn scrambled to escape. Some even have suspicions about the La Fazia cousins. Zayn actively doesn’t deny either entertainment of anger. He just sits there on the couch towards the back of the open floor and lets Eleanor apply butterfly bandages to the high points of his cheeks, and wrap his fingers.

They’re alone, mostly. Eleanor’s grimacing glares give everyone the shakes, and so do the deep purple of Zayn’s blossoming indentations. The bar is in sight, and El’s already called for one lackey or the other to bring them straight alcohol, no preference and no glass. Zayn wraps creaky fingers around the neck of Grey Goose that burns down his throat and fills up his stomach. All he sees when he looks at the bar is himself several weeks younger, chewing the fat at the bar stool with Eleanor and fretting over the fratty bartender who sucks Liam’s dick in between his shifts.

Zayn laughs at a simpler time, and watches Eleanor watching him.

“So your sister’s a real bitch.”

Zayn laughs again, can’t stop himself, because as simple goes, that’s about it. Sums up a fair amount of things on his end.

Eleanor holds out her hand palm up and wiggles her fingers until Zayn surrenders his hand to be disinfected. “I can relate. I got a sister, too.”

This is news to Zayn.

Eleanor shrugs and dips a washrag into cooling water, brushing over his knuckles again, her grimace making no secret of her disgust at the dry blood there. He would have it swabbed—the extra blood—but he doesn’t know how much is his, but airing his dirty laundry to Niall or some other investigative chump doesn’t appeal to him. “You do? Can’t say I’ve ever heard about you having a sister.”

“Yeah, she’s a right cunt, so. Total opposites, me and her.”

Zayn can see that, Eleanor running around with a sister she hates, someone who’s calm in her place as a hothead. Nice where Eleanor is brash. He hisses and takes another swig of fire patron, they don’t mix well with the painkillers he’d dry-swallowed, but it’s a temporary fix. “You ever bring her around, then?”

Eleanor has always been honest with Zayn, done what he’s asked when it’s realistic and set him straight when he needed it. That knowledge isn’t cohesive with the pinch of her features when she talks about her sister. “Nah, she lives in the states.”

“Why’s she no good,” Zayn questions gently, because it’s easier to keep track of somebody else’s failed family matters than to dwell over his own.

“Rat,” Eleanor spits, the condemnation rolls off her in waves that nearly send Zayn reeling back into the comfort of the couch cushions. She struggles to find an apology, and her cheeks tint in that time. Eleanor pats Zayn’s bandaged hand and rolls up the cuff of his trousers to take a closer look at his ankle. It gives her an outward task for her hands. “Sorry, she’s just—I get angry thinking about her. Troy’s dead to me, has been for years. Ma hates her too, but she’s still Dad’s fucking favorite.”

Zayn lets her peel his sock off and prod at the bruise of his toe, it does her more good than him. He’ll let this be counted as his good deed for the day; the month if she presses any harder. “Sucks having a screwed up family, man.”

She snorts and that catapults a smile onto Zayn’s face. He’s presented with the Eleanor he knows. “No, no. Don’t try to play the sympathy card,” Eleanor’s hair falls and she sweeps it back behind her ear. “We’re fucked up, but we can’t light a candle to all the bullshit you and Liam and Simon—now _Veronica_ —have going on.”

Asshole. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, I really know I’ll pull through now.”

“Joking aside, what are you gonna do?”

Zayn’s hands hurt when he scrubs them over his face, but it’s a good kind of pain, lets him know that he’s still alive. He’s got a new phone, contract, easily traceable. Liam and his new friends won’t have any trouble acquiring the number, and they’ve probably had it the second he had Miles go pick it up this afternoon. And if his suspicions weren’t enough, it rings every five goddamn minutes.

They’re getting impatient, and it’s only been six hours since Zayn made his escape.

It flashes again while Eleanor runs to get a warm sock and wards off the lingering associate itching at the sidelines to get to Zayn. His bandaged fingers lattice at his chin. Eleanor sits back down and jerks Zayn’s foot back into her lap. The throb in his foot has nothing on the pressure dulling at his brain, but the warm cloth makes it a little more bearable.

There are men bustling at the bar and waiting for Zayn to give them the green light for an attack. But he’s got to handle this first—get bandaged up so he doesn’t look like a walking pummel post—or the integrity of his name, and his father’s, won’t really matter all that much, because one or both of them will be rotting away in a prison cell at the hands of an anguished half-orphan and a widowed idiot.

Zayn mourned his loss a long time ago, he has neither the time or the patience to play the victim.

“There’s a lot of thinking to do.” Zayn sighs when Eleanor gestures for his other foot, even though there is nothing wrong with it, but she jerks it towards her despite Zayn’s silent protests. He takes another drink, and waves his hands. “I have to come up with a way out of all of this, retaliate against a fucking legacy, save Liam’s ass—”

“And kill her.” She somehow manages to be tactful at the same time her eyes steel with justified cruelty. “You don’t have another choice.”

As ideal as it sounds, the longer Zayn thinks about it, the less practical it becomes. “They’re feds, a whole fucking house of them. No way I can kill her without catching the heat. They’ll know.”

Zayn’s foot is set aside, and she’s piling her limbs beside his on the sofa and snagging the glass bottle from his hands. “She’s the one firing the hate. Her and the dad you’ve got to meet.” She slides her finger across her throat. “Knick the both of them, and the hard on they have for you is gone.”

The confidence he has in that plan is almost non-existent.

“I don’t think so.” Zayn tries not to feel regret, it’s sticky, doesn’t allow him to move his bones or breathe clean air without the residue of guilt matting in his joints and parts of his lungs. “I killed one of theirs today, a girl. She couldn’t’ have been more than thirty.”

Eleanor drops her head to his shoulder and lets the empty bottle clank on the strip of leather between them. “Jesus.”

“Nah, I think her name was Candace.”

She ends up laughing, but it’s dry and sore and Zayn knows that none of this is really funny. “Only you would make a joke about a dead girl.”

There’s a muscle in Zayn’s back that pulls when he shrugs, he tries not to think that means anything. “Can’t cry about it, it was her or me. Chose me, ‘guess.”

Zayn lets them both sit in silence. It’s less manageable without something to further dull the new aches in his bones and the worry somewhere close to his heart. What’s almost deafening, though, is the crunch of thoughts turning inside their heads.

“Would you do it?” She doesn’t need to be specific, Zayn is aware of what she’s asking.

_Would he roll over?_

It’s not a question he can ask himself right now, so Zayn answers vaguely. “What do you think?”

It’s meant to be sarcasm, but an answer comes out of her mouth without Zayn’s outward consent. Not that she’s operated on such vouchers before, but it’d be nice to get some slack on today. Of all days.

“I think,” she says, poking Zayn’s knee—the cap, thank fuck the sore nerve remains untouched—and rubbing over his fresh trousers. “That you’re not looking over all of your options, and it’s spooking you. I _know_ that you’ll do anything for Liam, including ratting and dying.” Her pokes get harder, her eyes more serious. “I _think_ that you’ve got decisions to make and you’re not thinking clear enough to make them.”

Zayn’s clawed the insides of his brain, there’s no out that he hasn’t thought up. No solution that doesn’t come with a pile of dead bodies. “It’s black and white, Eleanor. I only have a few choices.”

“Live in the grey. Black and white is too extreme.”

“I’ll—”

“You can’t cross that bridge when you get to it,” she supplements ungenerously, because she can document the lies in Zayn’s words better than anyone he’s had the pleasure of knowing. “You need to start making some choices, starting with what to do with those men at the bar, and ending with what kind of rope you’re going to use to hang your sister.”

Zayn would like to pride himself with the credit of the idea, but initially it’s Eleanor who sparks the creativity that gets his train of thought running in the right direction. There’s something taboo about beating a person at the game they’re so invested in playing. He can’t manipulate Veronica, she’s always ten steps ahead of him, always in front of his plans of action. She’s been curbing him for long enough that in order to jump the trigger Zayn needs to add different variables.

He needs to get up.

It’s not as painful as he imagined it, getting to his feet with a sore toe and a pulled nerve—the bruised rib and back are just fancy accessories to go with his wrapped fingers and bandaged nose. There are phone calls that need to be placed, men that crave orders that need to be set on a path of vengeance for Zayn. That power, he hasn’t lost it. The surge of strength in a name, that still belongs to him.

For now.

“Call Simon,” Zayn commands, chewing the inside of his mouth until Eleanor is satisfied with his lack of vocalized agony.

“I thought you wanted to do all of this on your own?” It’s adorable how she’s so confused. That also makes Zayn feel like less of a miserable low-life, so he relishes in the feeling of knowing more than his female counterpart. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“That I got picked up by Francis’ guys this afternoon. Barely escaped, but the message was clear.”

“We both know that’s not true, Zayn.”

He shrugs on his limping way to the office. “True and false are so black and white. I’m trying to live in the grey.”

**/////**

Zayn spends the remainder of the night in his office, making valiant efforts to type with two wrapped fingers and the open wounds across the plains of his hands. His toe throbs in his shoe as Zayn sits patiently and waits last phone call on his log.

While he waits, spins in his chair and fiddles with the new replica oh his cell, Zayn replays his voicemail. Specifically the urgent ones with Liam’s voice rallying at him. Zayn scoffs at the apologies and hates himself for wanting to drive to that safe house and risk his safety to un-wrinkle the worry that’s visibly etched into Liam’s forehead. Zayn can see them through the hacked coughs and heavy breathing, and his panic does nothing to make Zayn’s plans any easier, but it sets them into motion regardless.

“Your si— _Veronica_ wants to start heading in your direction,” he had relayed frantically, it paints a picture of a frayed Liam. Zayn can almost see him picking at his cuticles. “I told her you needed time to cool off.” There’s a stutter-step, ties that bind up Liam’s tongue. “You want this, right? To be—be free? I just—I know you’re freaking out.”

Zayn memorizes the pattern of Liam’s sighs, burdened but hopeful. “I know you didn’t mean to—you know, _Candace_ —it was an accident.” All Zayn can hear is how much Liam wants to believe that. “I’ll try to calm them down. I love you. I’m doing this for us, because I do, I lo—”

And that’s where Zayn’s voicemail dismisses him.

Zayn is left to fill in the pieces of Liam’s monologue.

“I love you, too,” Zayn says to nobody.

The ring of his corded office phone startles Zayn, but he answers. The click of one button fast-forwards his fate by a million seconds. “Hello?”

Zayn keeps the nerves in his voice, depicts the image of a scared little boy. “Son, you alright?”

He has to swallow the web of lies spinning in the back of his throat. Really, he doesn’t know which well-being he should grade to answer Simon’s question. Zayn can’t remember the last time he registered as alright, isn’t entirely certain what it feels like. Still, he answers. “I’m fine.”

His father seems to not take purchase in his faux assurances, so Zayn puts a W in his column. He needs Simon to feed into his fabricated frazzles. “Kaplan told me what you’ve decided, son. I have to say, I’m glad you’re accepting my offer for help.”

Son, or no son, this is business. Simon treats it as such. Zayn’s grown fond of that, he never wants to lose it. He’s forced to bite back the sentiments that might alert his father to the degree of the hot, white anger that’s sitting inside of his _son_ at the thought of having to choose to give it all away.

“I just need extra hands, ‘s all,” Zayn says in place of _“I love you, dad.”_

“Tudor is an old bastard hanging on to the dregs of an enterprise he lost ages ago.” Simon can’t hide the emotion in his voice, but he remains tactical. “You’re my son. I’m going to give you a lot more than a few bodies to put an end to the man who made an attempt on your life. And another after you left his men dead to find in the alley. You’re got all the help you need.”

How can anyone think he’s cold? Zayn’s not sure. The monster images of Simon flash into his head, and Zayn remembers hating him for reasons that seem so stupid and adolescent now. Zayn’s grown up to stand as a man, one who was given opportunities to earn the things he has. The bitterness in Zayn’s heart before Liam disappeared is unprecedented, buried there by a boy who has too much power over Zayn and the strings of his heart.

“123 Wicker Street, London.” This is the only way Zayn knows how to save the man that saved his life. “That’s where I am.”

“I’m talking to you on the club phone, son.”

He doesn’t plan to keep the shiners over Simon’s eyes, he has to think he’s the one turning the wheels or Zayn’s stay in the grey area will be very short lived. “There’s a sting there,” he explains. “Niall gave me a list of local agent houses to look out for. Jacob has a daughter that goes to Bigland Primary School, I had him roll by there after her footie match.” He waits for it to sink in on both ends of the connection. Zayn is really doing this. “It’s crawling with feds.”

It settles.

“Francis doesn’t do practical extractions, son. He’s more of a point and shoot kind of fellow. He likes to do drive-bys, old cowboy nonsense that no one has successfully pulled off in decades. He always has a series of fall men that get…” Zayn hopes the silence is part of the hook. “That’s brilliant.”

Line, and sinker.

The tide of relief soaks up the fret and Zayn smiles at nobody. It’s gotten quiet on the other side of his door, meaning his guests have arrived. Eleanor and Kaplan were under strict orders to lead the remaining parties out of the back as soon as the issued vehicle made an appearance in the parking lot. He doubts Veronica will try to corner any subtlety now that her mask has been ripped off.

There’s a knock, and Zayn hurries his call along to continue his rouse outside the confines of this room.

Work to be done, after all.

“I’d spread the word quick, have Tudor and his men moving as fast as possible. He’s going to want fast revenge for the bodies by the club.” Zayn would be offended if they didn’t take the offer of a free target, especially if it’s his head on the bull’s eye. “Someone should also call the police.”

“Why?”

Zayn thinks this day might be looking up; he grins and doesn’t even wince when his nose threatens to break under the ache of his shifting facial muscles. “That’s what you’re supposed to do when a crime is being committed.”  

**/////**

The club is never this dark, there’s always some sort of appointed strobe that offsets the deep corners that suck up spectrums of light. Zayn welcomes the dark, walks smoothly in it and sends up a barely audible prayer that he doesn’t trip and sprawl in front of present company. Zayn can take getting his ass kicked by a girl, but if it’s known that his own worst enemy is himself and temporary lacks of coordination—that would bring him to an all new low.

A lamp serves them the only light, small and ominous and Zayn swims into the darkness with each step. Veronica and Liam make an appearance, Zayn’s aforementioned company, and Zayn like knowing that he’s the one that gets the pleasure of bathing in shadows this time.

The lamp’s cast doesn’t reach very far, barely allows Veronica to walk through the front door without trouble. Everything has a purpose, and Zayn’s not dim enough to think that she’s not aware of the men flanked in the shadows. Liam heads up the rear, and Zayn breathes a sigh of relief that she brought him instead of leaving him to dwell with the others at their compromised safe house.

“I like the setup.” Those are Veronica’s first words, and Zayn is hoping that they are her last. “Dark and empty is really happening right now, great job.”

But unfortunately he’s got no such luck.

Liam looks like he can’t walk fast enough to Zayn, but when they reach the only illuminated table—where Eleanor and Jonathan are waiting—Veronica halts him with a hand, and Zayn is left standing feet apart from a pair of eyes that never leave him.

Luckily for Zayn, Eleanor is a great interceptor of sarcastic repertoire, and he doesn’t have to immediately threaten to cut Veronica’s tongue from the inside of her head. “You know what’s really _not_ happening?” Eleanor waits a second, lets Veronica place eyes on her for the first time of the night—Zayn has to turn away from the obvious sizing up they both do. “The word _happening._ ”

Jon and Zayn share a look when Veronica lets out a catty laugh and extends her hand. “I’m Veronica.” Her fingers clench and retract when El makes no sudden movement to include herself in any cordial introductions. Veronica nods in Eleanor’s direction, appreciating her callousness. “You’re funny, I like you.”

“I’m Eleanor. I know I’m funny,” she smiles, and Zayn thinks this might be his proudest moment. “And I _don’t_ like you.”

It’s hard to distract himself from Liam—Zayn knows he’ll break if he gets caught up in that glance, and everything will be over—but the steady glare Veronica receives from the tiny package of bravery and uncontested wit that’s standing to his left makes for a decent counter distraction. “Alright ladies, put your rulers away.”

Even in the sparse lighting, Zayn can see Veronica is in as much pain as he is, even if she doesn’t show it outwardly. She wears her scars with pride, wiping stray hairs away and back into the pony tail she’s bundled it in. The gash from the staircase needed stitches, and Zayn can count three if he squints. The bloom of purple underneath her eyes matches the dark bags underneath Zayn’s own, and when she shifts her jaw to continue glaring at Eleanor, he can’t stop himself from wincing at the shift of each tiny cuts in her cheeks.

Zayn doesn’t even want to know how she managed to get all the splinters out from their rooted spots in the lines of her face.

The cotton swab in her ear seals the deal, but Zayn doesn’t feel bad.

He’s delighted, even if it makes him sick looking at the mess he made of her face. Her cruel, evil, torturous face.

But what does that—not caring, not _feeling_ —make him?

“Do you want to have this talk in private, or have you briefed all the underlings?” If Veronica walked in here with the intention to play nice, it’s gone now. Liam’s eyes beckon again, and Zayn’s sist— _Veronica_ —rights him with an elbow to the arm. They exchange words in the briefest of seconds, and Zayn wants to stick a knife in her gut until all the horrible feelings in his own go away. “I’m serious, we have business to conduct.” Eleanor’s chomping at the bit to say something, but Veronica flutters her fingers in her direction and directs her comments at Zayn. “I’ve had a long day, and I’m not in the mood to entertain your groupies.”

Zayn watches Liam pull on Veronica’s sleeve, and the fire inside Zayn lights, grows bigger when Liam shakes his head at Veronica and she visibly softens.

Zayn shakes his head and waits. Eleanor’s eyes are glassy, but Zayn knows she’s not in danger of breaking down in tears; she’s angry. _Furious._ Her eyes dart downwards, and like Zayn, El doesn’t know what to make of the pair in front of her. Zayn expects to pull her from the backlash of the swing he expects Eleanor to take. Instead, his friend claws much deeper, makes no moves to raise an open handed fist when she steps forward.

Obviously not expecting the brazen behavior of a _groupie,_ Veronica’s shoulders tense. “How’s your face?”

Her eyebrows rise with superiority, and Zayn hopes that the anger pumping through Veronica’s veins makes her deaf to the chuckles in the shadows. Eleanor goes so far as to sneer after she spits the question in Veronica’s face, and no, this isn’t happening.

The partition of Zayn’s arm is swatted away, by Eleanor no less, when he tries to intervene.

“El, back off.” That’s not Zayn, and Jon is definitely not dumb enough to give their little firecracker instructions. But Liam, he looks damn good giving orders, even when he looks more confused saying them than Eleanor does taking them. Zayn and Eleanor watch him make a decision, look back and forth before Liam hammers the nail in Eleanor’s chest and nods at Veronica. “This isn’t the time or the place, she’s not the enemy.”

Zayn’s eyes fall closed for one second too long—there’s so much damage already, without Liam destroying whatever faith Eleanor had left in him—and the sting of flesh hitting flesh hits his eardrums before he can whip back his eyelashes and see it.

The yellow light of the lamp unveils Veronica’s red cheek and Eleanor’s open hand. Eleanor speaks very slowly, the intent of understanding very evident when she avoids Liam’s hurt gaze and looks directly into the angry depths of Veronica’s eyes. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done here.”

And Zayn believes Eleanor when she says it, there’s something about it that scares even him. Because he’s never heard that tone. Zayn’s never seen Eleanor with such a serious face—such a broken heart. For Zayn, no less. She carries Zayn’s burdens, and for the first time since he left Liam’s bed, Zayn feels safe.

“Take Liam’s advice, love.” Veronica nods in the direction of the shadows. “Leave.”

Zayn’s afraid of what Veronica might do, and when he looks at Liam this time all Zayn can transfer is the confusion in his heart. His head goes in circles, spins at the thought of Liam turning based solely on the idea of freedom. When being faced with the love and loyalty he’ll be leaving behind, Zayn thought he might break, but he needs a harder shove.

Zayn has to dig his fingernails in to the bed of skin at his palm to curb the urge to reach out and shake Liam, or maybe touch his hand.

_Now is not the time or the place._

“You think I’m scared of you?” Eleanor scoffs, and Zayn listens hard, but not a shed of fear comes into play when her voice hardens. “I can beat the shit out of Zayn, do way worse than a sprained finger and some skinned knuckles.” She gets closer, and Zayn’s body is no match for the sweep of power Eleanor’s frame presents, so he steps aside. Her skull falls, eyes making out the weight and height and false sense of purpose Veronica houses in the parameters of her figure. “I’m not scared of you. You’re a bully, and you’re hurting my boys. When the time comes, Veronica, this _groupie_ will deal with you accordingly. You name the time and the place, and I’ll show you what a real fight looks like.”

Nothing can get better from here.

“Liam, get Veronica out of here,” Zayn directs, fingers gingerly wrapping around Eleanor’s forearm to hold her in one place. It still fucking hurts, but he pinches the pain away with a long gulp and a longer look in Liam’s direction, nodding at Veronica. “ _Liam._ ”

But Eleanor pulls together her civility and shakes her head. “No, she can stay. I’ll leave.”

When she turns around, Zayn makes sure his eyes never leave the curdled length of Veronica’s hands. He doesn’t trust her, because her tactics with Zayn have always been to strike when vulnerability posed an opening. Eleanor’s hands fall to Zayn’s chest, and he’ll never know how she can tell that his heart needs a cooling touch. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a better friend. “If I leave you here with her, can you promise not to get blood on my table tops?”

“Do you really not want me to, kid?” Zayn smiles at his beacon of light in the form of his oldest friend. His hands squeeze hers through the pain. “I thought you might like some spilled blood.”

The small lift at the corner of her mouth is all Zayn needs to get him through the tough minutes ahead—that, and the frown he wants to erase from the mouth of the boy he wants to kiss. “Not really, Zayn.” Their words are hushed, low enough, but Zayn’s sure that everyone can hear them in the projecting cloud of darkness around them. Eleanor pats his chest a little harder than Zayn would prefer. “You just give it to her good, okay? Fucking hate her.”

He hugs her close to whisper in her ear. “Showtime, yeah? Liam’s here. Tell Louis and Simon that it’s a go.”

“You got it boss.” El confirms while Jonathan steers her away, and after a pointed cough and an outstretched hand, Liam looks up from his shoes long enough to see Eleanor’s invitation of wiggling fingers. “Come with me, yeah? I believe we have some catching up to do.”

Both Zayn and Eleanor see him start to turn to Veronica for permission, but fuck that. Zayn makes quick work of the floor beneath his tired feet and draws Liam’s hand into his own. “You don’t need her to sign off on every decision you make, Liam.”

It hurts to stand this close to Liam and only touch his hands, not his arms or his shoulders or his sides. The unconnected dots are evident in Liam’s eyes, and Zayn wants to pen them together with the felt of his solutions, but it’s not time yet. All he can do is nose at Liam’s cheek, and place a kiss. One and then two. “I’m here now, and I know what I need now. Things are going to get better, Liam. That means you don’t have to be scared anymore.”

Liam laughs at him, and it creates a lining that keeps out the rest of the world—the rest of the room. Nimble fingers pick at lint that Zayn knows is not on his jacket. He takes this time to look over Liam for any stray marks, but he looks perfect. Tired and broken and confused, but perfect. “I’m supposed to be the one saying that to you. This was my idea, remember?”

Like Zayn could ever forget.

“Let me iron out—let me set it all up, and we’ll be okay.”

Zayn’s not sure if anyone can hear them, Veronica sure hasn’t sidestepped to assure them privacy, but with Liam this close, he can’t feel her there. Finally, Zayn has the chance to iron out the crinkle of confusion from the furrowed plane of space between Liam’s brows. “You’re not doing anything bad, are you?”

“I’m not doing anything that’s not necessary,” is as close to reassurance as Zayn can manage with his lips at the corner of Liam’s mouth. Zayn’s fingers scream at him, but he squeezes Liam’s hand anyway, and the breath of misguided agony falls onto Liam’s jaw—he just wants to fucking rest here, never move again—but Zayn doesn’t let go until Liam’s reading all of the truths in his eyes. “I need you to stay with Eleanor, and Louis if he comes around, okay? Your safety is what I’m doing this for.”

“Doing what?”

“You should go.” Zayn springs Liam free into Eleanor’s unrelenting grasp. Thankfully it’s not dark enough for Liam to disregard the stern order to not make a scene that’s delivered from a clinically cold stare. “I’ll see you tonight, okay? Eleanor—”

Eleanor cuts Zayn off with reassurance, and doesn’t let go of Liam’s arm. “I know.”

For the first time in ages, Zayn’s putting down his executive fist, and Liam has to take instructions like he was any one of Zayn’s men. Simon’s men. And that’s what he is while he’s in this club, a foot soldier, no matter how uninformed. Zayn likes to take his time with Liam, explain things to him in ways that won’t make him ask any more questions—but he has to remain firm, so Liam can remember.

Remember that the only one that runs the show around here is Zayn.

And his father.

Veronica’s not amused when Zayn turns around and takes a seat. Chairs are provided, and he’s not afraid to be the first one that caves under the pressure of his surface injuries. “Got something up your sleeve?”

He unpins his outside cufflinks in order to roll up the sleeves of his fresh suit coat. He reveals the lining of his long sleeved dress shirt that lie beneath for show. He waves his wrist on display. “Just more sleeves.”

A door shuts after the scurry of feet takes Liam, Eleanor, and Jonathan out of the room. Veronica visibly relaxes, even though Zayn has a feeling she’s more aware of their still-present company that lies in wait than she lets on. Never one to spend time beating around the heart of matters at hand, she moves her hand around the back of her shirt and comes around with a manila file. “We’ve come up with a deal that’s suitable for everyone here, Zayn.”

In an attempt to look coy she raises a slick eyebrow, one of her stitches drawing Zayn’s attention to her forehead—she’s sweating. Zayn makes a coy expression himself, gesturing to his own forehead. “Nervous, Veronica?”

“It’s just hot in here,” she explains, and Zayn yearns for a fork he can stick in his hand—because he would rather scream in pain than frustration. She opens her little file, it’s all very cute and cordial, but Zayn barely glances down. She still thinks she’s calling the shots—and that—well, that’s hilarious. “Under the circumstances, I had to pull a lot of weight for you. But I managed, and you and Liam can—”

To make it interesting, Zayn hooks one ankle over the other and taps fragile fingers over the glass of his table. “What circumstances are you talking about?”

“You killed one of my guys, and shot another.” She huffs, like Zayn huffs when he’s angry. When he’s irritated and he’s not getting the answers he needs. The easiest part of playing her, he now realizes, will be knowing how to play himself. “It took a lot of convincing to let you just get away with that. You’re going to have to really give us some things in return.”

He laughs, because there’s nothing more infuriating to Zayn than being laughed at—mocked. He shakes his head, keeps tapping. The noises have to be persistent, they can’t stop. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

When he sees her nostrils flare, Zayn knows he’s onto something, and it’s a quick task to rack his brain for any other quirks she might have inherited, and for a moment—just one—he wonders who came first. Who got what from who. If their temper is something that sprung into them through the anger of Yaser, or if their mother was a hot head. When Zayn picks at his nails, does Veronica do the same, or did he get that from Nan?

But that’s dangerous.

Thinking those things—curiosity—is what got them here in the first place, and Zayn isn’t stupid enough to repeat mistakes. Instead, he uses those thoughts to make this more surgical, creates a play-by-play that will unravel Veronica the way he needs her to, and he throws the rest of his thoughts towards the back of his skull to be officially tossed out at a later date.

A slam of her palm on the table, that’s definitely something they both share. Although, when she does it, the rest of her body shakes, and Zayn watches it do so until she clenches her jaw hard enough to stop it. “What are you playing at, huh? I saw you kill her, and a room full of people heard you. Stop trying to play games, and _listen._ ”

Zayn lets her stew while he aligns every line of his body to stay in place. Appearances count, and Zayn can’t even slouch his shoulders in the slightest, tap his foot once. It all has to be perfect. He has to remember it perfectly, and so does everyone else. Nothing can be out of place, should it alert her to any other ventures he might have for the night.

Cavalier is what he goes for, and Zayn lets the bones in his cheeks stay high, never looking down. Never shadowing doubt. His eyes are solid; Zayn blinks respectively and keeps a lock on her gaze. If she wasn’t there to witness his crimes, Zayn knows Veronica could still read him as a liar. But that’s the point, he wants her to know that he’s aware of his actions. And that he’s also aware of the bind her hands are in, because there’s nothing she can do about it.

She just doesn’t know that yet.

“I don’t know precisely what happened to your friends, Ms. Malik, but I do send my condolences.” He stops tapping, it’s time for her to drown in the silence he provides after dropping the bomb in her lap. “I hear Francis Tudor and his men can be very lucrative in how they pay visits to people, but rest assured, the cops _should_ catch him.”

“What are you—”

Zayn shushes her with a finger to his lips, and she sinks in her chair under the seduction of secrecy as Zayn leans forward to whisper the last of his horrible truth. “Hopefully not _all of your men_ will die in vain.”

He watches the ship sink, crash into her remainder of hope and plummet. It’s a long and slow fall to the bottom, but Zayn watches her shed no tears for the brigade of men and women she brought into the sting of her still fruitless operation. Her chin juts, but Zayn recognizes that as faux confidence. He thinks it might be the only thing holding her up at all. “They’re all dead? All of them?”

“Tudor doesn’t really leave men behind to talk things over, and since I’m apparently at your safe house right now, I don’t think he’ll be pleased enough to give me any breathing room.” Zayn examines his nails, plays disinterested. “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“You bastard.” Her voice curls around the words, and Zayn can see in the crease of her brow that whatever thoughts Veronica had of a happy family are gone—off the table. She does her best to regain her composure, that must have slipped out. Zayn’s not pinned down the degree of ice in her heart, but it’s a toss up as to whether her anger is for the lost lives, or the lost case. “You’ll never get away with this.”

“I already have.”

“What if your father was in there, huh? Would you smile so much then, Zayn?”

He laughs at her attempt to play on feelings he doesn’t have for people he’s never met. “Simon’s safe and sound—”

“ _Yaser,_ ” she spits, and Zayn eyes the curl of her fingers around the edge of the table. “How do you know he wasn’t in there? Fuck— _fuck,_ I have to go.”

She stands, and Zayn snaps, it’s all very poetic. The silencers make it all the more beautiful to hear the soft whizzing of bullets run past her head. One and then two, three and four after that until she’s stumbling back into her chair, knuckles white with her continuing grip on the side of Zayn’s table. He continues to examine the ends of his nails, while Veronica pants with worry before him.

Zayn frowns at her with amused disappointment, the smile behind his grimace almost succeeding in bursting through. “Please stay in your seat, Veronica.”

The skittish way she looks around, tries to make out faces in the dark, it brings rumbles of laughter to Zayn’s chest again. None of her men have fallen, his rumor has barely had the time to spread. But at the end of the hour, they will be. And in the end, she’ll find out that she was here waxing away with Zayn while her men were served up on silver platters because of her mistakes.

He wonders which detail will hurt more.

“I had no intention of killing your Pops, kid. He’s not even in town, if he _were_ , he would have made an appearance when Liam brought me in. I know what egotistical looks like, I know what their offspring looks like. You’re looking at it. Simon would have never let me handle something so big if he weren’t otherwise engaged.”

Veronica snarls, and the spit that flies out of her mouth barely escapes landing on Zayn’s face. “Yaser is _nothing_ like Simon, don’t _ever—_ I’m nothing like you, either. I would never turn my back on _my family._ ”

“Then I’m afraid we’re more alike than you think.”

The rage eats her up, makes Veronica brave and Zayn would hate— _love_ —to see her fall from a pedestal so high after she’s made the climb so taxing on herself. Veronica taps her chest frantically with her forefinger. “ _I_ call the shots here, you hear me? This is still _my_ game you’re playing. _I_ fucking make the rules.”

Zayn’s done here. He scoots back his chair, and the legs scrape the floor loudly enough to make his toes curl at the end of his shoes. He won’t watch her implode, he’s got things to take care of. “You and what army, Veronica? Tell me that, who’s going to fight for you after you’ve cost so many people their lives?”

“I can find more mer— _agents._ There are more people who want to help take you down, Zayn.”

Taking a page from the book they share, his hands slap on the table, and Zayn bites down a wince to make it very clear to Veronica that he’s done with her antics. That his limit has been reached. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t grab her face in his hands because he’s scared that he’ll break it, and all of this will have been for nothing. “And I’ll kill them, too. You line ‘em up, and I’ll shoot. You’ve shown your cards, Veronica, and you _lost._ I’ll make a deal with you, but it’ll be on my terms. You won’t get Simon, you’ll get me.”

“Liam would never let you do that.”

Zayn has to swallow his immediate responses. “I’ll take care of Liam, _you_ take care of Yaser. Because if I turn myself over and the both of you still gun after Simon, I won’t be nice enough to wait until you’re out of the house before I send men to start shooting.” He gets very close, mimics the steady breathing and slanted eyes that Eleanor emulated earlier. “I just killed _all of your men_ without moving from this spot. You don’t scare me.”

He stands up straight and unwrinkles the dents in his jacket. Zayn trusts his men enough to turn his back on Veronica and walk away. The short walk to his office door feels like miles, but his shoes glide along the slick surface of the floor, and he’s at the closed frame before he hears Veronica speak behind him.

“Liam has to come with me, Zayn.”

“Liam stays.”

He turns the knob, can’t wait to see his prize behind the door. “And what about me? Am I supposed to just _sit_ here all night? You tell me when I can _leave,_ Zayn.”

“How about when I say you can?”

**/////**

“Is everything okay?”

Liam’s the first one to make a spring for the door, and Zayn is thankful that Eleanor’s feet keep him tethered down—whatever was burning between them obviously gone—and all Liam is left to do is look. Look around Zayn, behind Zayn, everywhere but at Zayn. It’s tiring, playing these games—jumping back and forth when his feet ache to be planted at Liam’s side—all Zayn wants to do is plant his roots somewhere they’re not in danger of being yanked from the ground.

Jonathan isn’t anywhere to be seen, but the door to the alley is open, and Zayn can make out the blue hue of headlights spilling through the doorway, he’ll wait for Jon to resurface to make an exit strategy. “Where’s Veronica, Zayn? Tell me you didn’t—”

“Fuck no, I didn’t—Jesus, can you give me a second to think?”

The adhesive on Zayn’s bandages don’t make it easy to comb through his hair without sticking in some places, and it’s almost as infuriating as having to make a call to end the lives of the a small handful of people. Enough people to pin Francis Tudor to the wall, regardless if Zayn set the rouse in motion or not. That has to be an afterthought, it can’t rest in the forefront of Zayn’s mind because he has so many other matches to set aflame in order to make sure they’re not the ones who go up in flames.

Liam’s concern for others is so noble, and overall, that’s the same innocence Zayn has spent so much wasted time trying to protect. Liam should be shielded, people like Veronica shouldn’t be able to sneak in under Zayn’s nose and tarnish all the hard work—all the effort—that’s gone into wiping Liam’s hands clean.

“Are you going to be alright?” Liam beckons him, but Zayn is still working, he has business to attend to. Sleeping on the job is how Veronica ripped Liam away from him in the first place, he’s not allowing it again. He’s never had to speak to talk to Liam, and Zayn hopes their lines of communication are still open when his head moves slightly to the left, eyes falling shut. _Not now, but later_. Liam’s lashes could bruise his cheekbones with how fast they blink back an acceptance, swallowing as an afterthought. “Yeah, okay. Okay.”

Zayn wants _okay_ to be enough for them.

Jonathan peaks his head around the doorjamb, it’s not cold enough to cause a breeze, but it doesn’t take much to send white chills up the back of Zayn’s spine. Jon’s speaking to someone and then he’s waving someone forward. Trying to pay attention to his randomly selected number two of the night, and not let Liam out of his sight, Zayn keeps an ear out for any strange noises coming from the floor room. Twelve guys out there—guys Zayn’s seen his whole life, but never had to depend on—hardworking and young, the crew he put together to work for the dirty money that allowed each person in this room to live comfortably—and they have no idea what they’re dealing with where Veronica is concerned.

He doesn’t want to take any chances.

But the time for that is apparently not at this second, because the person Jonathan’s spent time coercing a visit from is Louis. Damn, Zayn has to admit, is it good to see him. Zayn’s had to count down the days, and speaking via channels of Zayn’s father and carefully selected henchmen, it’s very different from seeing Louis in person. With his rolled cuffs, curtsey of too many days without Zayn’s watchful taste in men’s clothing.

This is the first time Zayn’s been under the judgmental scrutiny of someone he’s come to know as more than his personal driver—since he told him to drive away and not look back.

“You stubborn bastard. Y’know, I could kill you if you didn’t already look dead on your feet.” Louis smells like cologne and forgiveness when Zayn wraps his arms around him, and the splash of tranquility that holds him when Louis whispers into his hear is one of the most refreshing things Zayn’s experienced since he woke up beside Liam this morning. “It’s good to see you in one piece, you shit.”

“’S good to see you, too,” sounds a lot like, _“Thank you, friend.”_ Because Zayn seems to be counting those he keeps close these days, and it’s a lot easier to hug an understanding into someone than it is to fumble for words Zayn’s not sure he can find in his head.

Zayn steps back and takes it all in—his prizes. Comprised of an assistant, a driver, and a man who plays too many roles in Zayn’s life to be a boy. Not that just Liam doesn’t suffice, but this makes it better—knowing that Zayn weighed the value of this group of people against the lives of people he’ll never know—it makes it easier. Not bearable, but easier.

As a show of good faith—a signal that Zayn does have semblances of hope left in his body—he holds out a hand to Liam. A hand to take him away form all this for the night.

It’s bandaged—no, sprained—and it’s not at all the symbol of foreshadowing that Zayn wants Liam to base the rest of their night—and all the ones following it—but it’s all he can do. “Let’s go somewhere safe, huh?”

And at the last minute, Zayn has to turn away, so he doesn’t have to see the indecision dance across Liam’s face if he doesn’t answer. It’s easier to direct while Liam gets to be the one to decide, than it is to stand there like a fool with all his eggs in one basket.

Jon stands to take orders, and Zayn admires the will he has to bow his head when the need arises.

Zayn makes his orders accordingly. “As soon as Lucas gets a hit on the scanner, let her go.” Eleanor protests, but Zayn leaves Liam with the task of quieting her. His arm is in danger of going numb, but Zayn leaves it behind him with an open palm. Jon nods for Zayn to continue and he gets a tight-lipped smile of gratitude in return. “Make sure she doesn’t get out of here with a phone. The jammer Niall set up only covers the main room, and she has to remain contained for as long as possible. Do not tail her, okay? She’s really, uh—she’s really fucking dangerous. I assume the trackers were put in all the right places?”

Louis nods. “Hidden in plain sight, she’ll find the decoys before she pulls out of the parking lot.”

“And the real ones?”

“Planted in a spare tire in the backseat.”

The lack of brutality—not counting the pile of bodies in Wicker Street—makes him hum in agreement, the new age ways of take down are a lot easier to swallow than the things Zayn was handy at when it was his turn as a lackey.

“Well then you let them do their jobs, we have wireless detail for a reason. I don’t want anyone playing the hero. And Jonathan, no one outside this club hears about anything she says.” It’s important, this. That Jon really hears Zayn. Containment is the key to all Zayn’s trying to do. “Not Simon, not any of his guys. The second someone out there opens their mouths, she’ll use ‘em against us. Eyes to the front, mouth shut. No one goes anywhere alone until we figure out how many stragglers Francis left behind. No one outside our crews knows it was a setup, and the longer we keep it that way, the longer we keep breathing.”

“Got it.” No questions asked, Jonathan takes his cue and steps back outside to make his calls.

His hand is still empty, and when Zayn looks around everyone has eyes for them. Zayn flexes the ends of his fingers, and he actively fights the urge to close his hand before Liam does something smart like say no.

Liam’s always been the sure one—hard headed—even if Zayn had to be there to be the resistance to his ever present persistence. And when the doors close at the end of the night, Liam wanted to be Zayn’s reprieve. He’s unsteady on his feet, though, now. And Zayn wants a semblance of their old balance back, even if the mess of their insecurities has turned them of their axis.

It might have been awhile, but Zayn hasn’t forgotten how to stay on top of things—how to play the knight in falsely shined amour when Liam needs to be saved from himself. That, and the mess Zayn’s put him in by just existing.

He nods again to garner Liam’s attention, and his whole world slots back into place when Liam’s fingers slide delicately into his own. “Where are we going?”

The trust he finds in Liam’s big, brown eyes is something he never wants to lose again. Something he never wants to forget the look of. He couldn’t care if all the eyes in the world found themselves attached to the two of them, Zayn brings their hands to his lips and places a delicate kiss without regard. And it’s not very smooth, but it makes Liam’s lips curl into what could be mistaken for a smile. So really, Zayn thinks it does what it was intended to do.

“There’s only one place I can take you, where I know you’ll be safe.”

Liam itches to say more—Zayn can see it percolate on the end of his tongue—but he nods, stands down because he knows Zayn can’t take another fight today. There’s nothing sexual about the way they connect in that spot, breathing each other’s air, and exhaling into the safety they’ve weaved together. Liam feels so small in front of him, and the fraction of difference in their height goes unnoticed when Liam borrows as close to Zayn as he possibly can without crawling right inside the warmth of his skin. “And where would that be, hmm?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Zayn admits with his eyes open to any objections Liam might present with his lips sealed.

But he sees nothing, and well, shit—that’s better than something. The void of hesitations leaves Zayn open to breathe without any toxic fumes of doubt eating away at the butterfly lined insides of his stomach.

“Take me home.”

**/////**

Zayn’s never been sure what his mirror thinks of him, but today he thinks he can stare at the bones in his cheeks and the wiry hairs on his chin and not want to hate himself for the rest of the day. Or night. The rest of the night. He and Liam climb into the back of Louis’ vehicle and slam the door shut on any outside doubts they have about speeding off to Simon’s place—what they both used to call their home. It’s doesn’t click until Zayn’s in the bathroom that the warmth of Liam’s hand in his own is congruent with the seconds he can look himself in the eye. If it weren’t for him, Zayn thinks that he would cower away.

He knows it, in fact.

They fumble for a long time, weird pinky looping on a quiet ride to the one place that Zayn knows he can keep Liam out of harm’s way. And Liam might hate it here, it’s very obvious how he feels about it, but Zayn makes an effort to think, and he can’t recall a time where his or Liam’s safety has ever been called into jeopardy inside these walls.

Simon won’t be home until he finishes running interference, and Perrie isn’t in her room when Zayn and Liam stumble up the stairs preceded by giggles and bumping limbs, so they rest their awkward hands and lie down on Zayn’s bed after they’ve stripped the sheets and pillows and everything else that smelled and looked and felt like it didn’t belong. The door gets locked and there are two sets of shoes at the end of the bed next to a pair of trousers and a ridiculous wife beater that Liam keeps underneath his clothes.

“Let’s just lie here,” Liam murmurs with a controlled smile, laughing because Zayn is the one who’s kind of fucked up now, and he assumes its cosmic payback, but it doesn’t make it any easier to slide into bed with creaking bones and geriatric muscle spasms. “It’s not like we can really, _you know_ —I just want to be next to you. ‘S that weird?”

Liam chokes down a small fraction of his pride and finds three pillows that smell the least like body wash and jasmine perfume, because as much as Zayn would like the mattress to be barren sans for their arms and hands and feet, he needs something to prop him up against the weight of Liam he plans to feel on his chest.

Zayn shrugs and nearly spits at the unexpected pain that comes from punching a fucking pillow in order to fluff it. “It’s not weird at all, I can’t—I wouldn’t want to do it here. Not right now, ‘s fucking—it’s weird to _want_ to do it.”

“You’ve always been brilliant with words,” and Liam’s on his knees between Zayn’s legs, and they kiss with split lips and whole smiles.

They don’t talk about Veronica, or Zayn’s other estranged family member, not with Liam trying amusingly hard not to disrupt any of Zayn’s fresh surface wounds. The space around his navel is unharmed, so Liam finds a spot there and the tickle of his mouth on Zayn’s belly button is a welcome sensation. The whispers against his skin are on the contraire of the suggestions he spouted earlier—about not wanting to do it—but Zayn should have expected Liam to be an ass.

“I think you’re just scared you won’t be able to get it up.” God, he’s such a dick. Zayn feels a swat land on his belly and that presents the perfect time for Zayn to tangle mangled fingers through Liam’s growing hair. He shifts to bring his knees up around Liam’s side and squeezes, and for some reason that makes the stair shaped pains on his back flare up. Zayn pretends he doesn’t feel anything so he can keep enjoying Liam and his apparently boundless wit.

“You’re probably right.” Zayn can’t say for sure that he’s not imagining the welts left by the pressure of his hands when he fingers the back of Liam’s neck, so he passes them over and goes back to running his nails along miles of scalp and un-sculpted hair.

Unserved justice sticks in the back of Zayn’s mind while sends bubbles of laughter throughout his body, and it’s nice to pretend that everything is not fucked up, if only for a few seconds.

“Is it weird that I find it kind of hot how you got your butt kicked?” The line of a scab draws Liam’s attention—from a cut Zayn doesn’t remember getting—and Liam lets the pads of his fingers linger there while he lies in wait for an answer. “I’ve never seen you actively suck _so bad_ —it’s kind of nice to know that you’re not perfect.”

Perfect is a long stray to what Zayn feels like every morning when he wakes up with regrets on his shoulders. “She’s like, a secret agent spy. Nan would roll over in her sheets if she knew I hit a woman.”

“She would roll over a few more times if she knew you lost.” Liam doesn’t bring up the guy who will be found with a hole in his cheek, or the lost life of a girl named Candace who was someone’s daughter, but neither one of them tries to forget it. Liam maps out a path to Zayn’s hand, and they hold each other’s fingers gently without question. “But you did a good job, very nice footwork and all that.”

It’s not evident which of them shoulders the weight of their sins to allow such a light conversation, but Zayn’s glad they have this for a second.

Everything goes so fast, but Liam’s smiling into Zayn’s stomach, and the butterflies he releases leave Zayn sick and tired, but happy. “Don’t starting giving me shit, I’m an injured man.”

He never lets go of Liam’s hand.

Liam’s tongue makes a clicking sound that makes Zayn want to wrap him up to preserve his childlike tenacity, but it’s just a simple retraction of Liam’s previous statement so he can make a new one. Zayn doubts it will be any less insulting. “I think if you schedule a few more rumbles without the bruising and the bullets, you could have your summer legs back around spring time.”

Zayn doesn’t remember smoking, but he feels high. There’s a lazy passing of time, and he yanks gently at Liam’s hair in order of a reprimand—his legs are a sensitive subject, dammit—and he can feel Liam tracing over a thin scar that they both keep forgetting is there. It’s thin and pink and from a fire that feels like so long ago, even though they’re still both choking on the smoke all these years later.

“Springs in Italy and Belize.” Zayn’s mind takes him miles away from their conversation with one word. “How long has it been since we’ve been to the beach together?”

Liam in the sand, young and taut and not a fraction as rebellious—it’s a beautiful thing. The sun sticks to him as evenly as the grains of their trails, and the memory alone warms the skin on Zayn’s face. Liam must be remembering, too—hand jobs under harbor docks and frantic kisses in the back of sweltering cars. Because when Zayn looks down, he’s shining almost as bright as the sun did a decade ago, and his fingers squeeze Zayn’s a little tighter.

“Not long enough for me to forget that you’re allergic to all the jizz in the Mediterranean.”

Zayn scoffs, because it really wasn’t fucking like that. “I got stung by a _jellyfish._ ”

“Not all over your whole body.” Liam may be right, but Zayn will never let him hear those words come out of his mouth. When he shakes his head too hard, Zayn wants to hold him still—this isn’t a moment he wants to break with haste. “We spent the better part of that trip arguing about me peeing on you, and hiding from—from _him,_ in the hot tub.”

Liam trips over his words for the smallest of seconds, and Zayn catches him with a hopefully soothing palm at the back of his neck. _You can say his name_ , he tries to scream. _He’s not the enemy, he loves us,_ is on Zayn’s agenda to shout, but nothing comes out and Zayn’s left trying to paddle them away from troubled waters without flipping them on their side. “You can say it.”

But his mouth doesn’t always cooperate with his mind, and he’s waiting for Liam to stiffen hard enough to break the bubble of solidarity they’ve weaved around them after his suggestion.

But Liam surprises Zayn, sits up and kisses his bandaged knuckles with a smile. “Let’s do it.”

“Say his name?”

“Hide from our problems in the hot tub.”

**/////**

The cliché of relaxing in an expensive luxury such as a Jacuzzi after a long day is worth the warmth it puts on Zayn’s sore muscles. Liam’s nice enough to dig out swimming trousers that Zayn had misplaced with the towels and tub salts in the guest room, but he’s not generous enough to hand them over in time for Zayn to put them on. Liam’s being a giggly prick, so Zayn goes into the South yard with just his knickers on, and it’s his solo mission to finagle with the pump until fresh water is filtering into the outside tub—it’s not exactly swimming season, Zayn notes, but the warm water that swirls around his hand makes the idea all the more appealing.

“I brought us something to drink, ‘d you mind?”

Zayn’s being mindful of his bruised toe as he climbs over the railing and wishes they had more scenery other than the empty pool adjoined to their temporary paradise, but Liam’s walking towards him in a towel with a bottle of champagne branding a faux-prestigious label that Zayn doesn’t have the will to name. Zayn isn’t ashamed of the way he watches Liam—who’s lean and long and all too stunning in the low light of the estate lights and the cotton of a towel barely hiding a range of skin Zayn would very much like to get his hands on.

“As long as you don’t expect me to drink that a glass at a time.” Liam knows Zayn is watching, he can see it in the way he flexes his thighs as he walks—in the small jut of his hips and the arch of his back as he bends over to set the tall bottle beside Zayn’s discarded pool shoes. He gets an eyeful of what Liam’s wearing—or not wearing—underneath his towel, and his appreciative hum makes Liam press his legs together before he strips away the towel and hurriedly slips in before Zayn can say something that makes him flush even more beautifully.

Zayn fully intends to bat that shy shell of a skittish creature away until his Liam is back and he’s being tugged against his naked lap with a mouthful of Liam’s earlobe or maybe his lower lip. But one of their fucking cell phones go off, and Liam’s out of the water as swiftly as he got in—leaving Zayn with the sight of his naked backside and his soft cock, all fucking dripping with droplets of water that Zayn won’t get to chase because Liam’s scurrying off to see if it’s important. “I’ll be back, I think that’s me!”

Dejected, Zayn leans back, hits his head on the pebbled exterior of the poolside and curses what the night’s left him with in that moment. A running Liam and half a boner, also a bottle of champagne that’s so obviously Liam’s when he corks it open—bottom shelf shit that Zayn would scoff at—does—if he didn’t want to drown in it so bad.

It turns out Zayn is left with his thoughts for some time, but the water feels good, better than good if he’s honest. The wet cotton of his briefs long ago got tired, and he retired then to sit in the nude, water bubbling at his back and hardening him at the erotic vibrations near his spine and shoulders. This could be one of the last times Zayn sits here like this, if his plan goes so accordingly, and he wants to remember how everything smells. The faint traces of chlorine will remind him of the gentle sway of the trees and the horrible taste of white wine in autumn.

He tries to see Liam here in the summer, nice and tan and unhappy. Zayn doesn’t pray, but he does wish. He wishes for Liam’s understanding of why he has to do what he’s planning to do. And in time, Liam will see that he never had any hands to play—his part in all of this will always be linked to Zayn’s love for him, nothing else—it all really was a horrible coincidence that placed him in the arms of this family. Zayn’s arms.

Zayn takes another drink, and it goes down slow and distasteful, but it goes down all the same. He guesses that’s a lot like his life—hard to swallow but passable—and Zayn wonders how this all tastes to Liam, or maybe Eleanor. Louis and Niall, even. Simon. His feet move hesitantly under the water in a struggling swish, and Zayn hopes that eventually they can move past this—the bruising inside and out—and that the rough waters of this fucked up life won’t present any more barriers that they have to swim under. Another drink, and he’s become maudlin.

One more and Zayn forgets that Liam is supposed to come back.

His fingers trace the line of the bottle where only half of the wine remains, and he takes another drink when he hears Liam steps come upon him heavy and certainly less pleased than they were on his way inside. He sinks in as far from Zayn as possible, but the buzz of alcohol in his head makes everything too unimportant for Zayn to reach over and question the shut off motives of Liam’s pouting movements.

What baits him is the stiffness in his bones, the coldness that doesn’t belong to the child that’s whining in Zayn’s head. It’s an adult anger that makes Zayn’s head spin a little too fast because this is supposed to come later, when Liam is begging him not to be smart. When he’s crying out for justice of his family, and not the protection of the man Zayn calls his father.

“If you have something to say, I’d rather you say it so we can move on with the rest of our night.” Zayn can tell from the cringe of Liam’s naked shoulder that those are not the words he was trying to dig up. He recalls just an hour ago when their banter was present and Zayn didn’t have to fret over the crease of confusion and anger that rested upon Liam’s brow because it had vanished with Zayn surrounding him. “Frowning gives you wrinkles,” he tries to quote, but that’s a memory that doesn’t help Zayn’s case, so he expects the sharpening of Liam’s eyes that he gets in return. “A wise man told me that.”

“I told you that,” Liam replies, glumly stewing in their shared waters. Before now Zayn wasn’t aware that one could be seated naked with someone who knows how to explore your body and your soul and the thoughts inside your head, and still find nothing worth sparking a light of excitement. “You’re not getting any points by trying to be cute, y’know? I can’t—it’s hard. I can’t even look at you right now.”

But apparently Zayn is wrong, it is possible. And the freeze out leaves Zayn’s toes curling and the slash in his side burning hot for reasons that he won’t delve into—his psyche is pretty fucked up. He tries to calm the metaphorical waters and sits forward in his seat, his arousal the last thing on his mind when Liam is sitting in touching distance looking so broken—a torn visual that has nothing to do with the blossomed handprints around his neck and the crack in his lip.

“How do you know you can’t do look at me if you don’t even try?”

Liam’s palms settle across the top of the water, as if to physically reach out and calm the storm that lies between them. He did it as a kid, Zayn used to call him weird—Liam was a weird kid—too connected with the universe instead of the people inhabiting it. Or maybe that was Zayn, and Liam was the friendly one. Maybe they only extended their courtesies to one another. But Liam did that as a kid, slapped the surface of the water and steadied it under his fingertips afterwards.

It’s not unlike now, how Liam riles up their lives and attempts to rein in the aftermath. “Were you going to tell me before or after you were in jail—or prison? Or did you think that turning yourself over for crimes that aren’t on anyone’s radar was on a need-to-know basis?”

Zayn tries not to visibly deflate, and he does a great job, still reaching over to Liam, and holding on to the top of his arm even after Liam puts up a struggle. He really can’t look at Zayn, and dammit, if a piece of his already incomplete heart doesn’t chip off at the chill of Liam’s resistance. “You can be a giant fucking baby about this, or you can talk to me.” Liam settles, if he hates Zayn being right, he hates when he’s right about Liam even more. They don’t move very fast in the water, and a slim percentage of it has to do with Liam’s reluctance to sit so close to Zayn with his slippery naked thighs touching Liam’s under the water. “So I take it you spoke to Veronica?”

Zayn should have known that Veronica would have found a way to get a hold of Liam, regardless if she had her cell phone frisked or not.

“Your sister,” Liam smarts petulantly, unable to keep away from Zayn when he’s being coy enough to drag his wet, bandage fingers over the matte of hair near the juncture of Liam’s thigh and hip. “The one that’s trying to help us—I’m not in the mood anymore, Zayn, _stop._ ” Liam isn’t smiling, but he’s not frowning—or fucking pouting—when he slaps Zayn’s hands away under the bubbly textured water that stays between them when Zayn scoots to give Liam his breathing room. “She’s trying to _help,_ and you’re throwing all her hard work in the trash.”

Zayn doesn’t have the strength in his bones for this.

He reaches out to touch Liam, and he doesn’t back away, but he doesn’t touch Zayn back.

There is no sunlight in the way that Liam frowns and thinks and maybe wonders why he ever thought this was a good idea—being in love with someone who wasn’t cable of being loved. Adored. The love they had was consummated by taking—taking what they want, and taking away the responsibilities Zayn had outside the flashes in time that he got to be held by someone who was a boy when he first broke Zayn’s heart.

He breaks it when he smiles, when he laughs. Because Zayn doesn’t know if he can make him do that everyday, and Liam deserves someone who can. And when he breathes too hard or holds on to Zayn’s hands for too long, he chips away at the only pieces of Zayn that are left—and every single one of them is a little bit in love with Liam. Zayn loves him with his heart and his mouth, his soul and his eyes and his brain because loving Liam—protecting him—is the most rational thing Zayn has ever done.

So when Zayn says, “This is the only way,” he really means it.

Because Liam fell in love with Zayn’s tenacity, and his will to live with the cards he’s been dealt. And he loves Zayn for his strength and his loyalty, and reasons that go unnamed. Reasons that Zayn will never discover because as much as he wants to, Zayn will never be able to crawl inside Liam’s head and stay.

And when Liam holds his hands, and they slide together so deliciously—edible in the way that Zayn wants to savor this moment and every inch of skin he gets to brush against when Liam makes a home for himself in Zayn’s lap—he begs Zayn to strip away the pieces of himself in a blind and temporary manner that leaves Zayn shaking his head. “Let Simon pay for his mistakes. I need—I need _someone_ to be responsible for me losing my parents. I do, I need that, Zayn.”

Zayn breathes in, because Liam doesn’t say family, just parents. And Liam needs to be held, because even as he looks at Zayn, they both know that it’s a dream he’ll never catch. It can never happen. Liam has family, but he doesn’t have a mother. Or a father, not like Zayn. And Zayn’s ghosts chase him, when Liam’s stay dormant. For once he wishes Liam could have had his own nightmares, his own burdens. Zayn tries to give transfer them—they’re all on his back—with kisses to Liam’s wet eyes and hands at his long back. But it doesn’t work and Liam is defeated and small and broken in his lap and this will be over soon—they don’t cry, not here in the open where it’s a sign of weakness—and Liam will smile in Zayn’s face and whisper in his ear.

But right now, he cries, and Zayn doesn’t have to say that he doesn’t know how else to help. Because Liam knows, and he knows that they can’t fight right now, neither one of them has the ammunition of harsh conversation and words that pierce like bullets, they’ve used them up and now they’re both empty and useless but together.  

“This isn’t what I wanted,” and the salt of Liam’s tears can barely be smelt over the chlorine, but Zayn thinks this is a memory of his senses that he’ll hold on to. “This isn’t—I didn’t want this for you, Zayn. I don’t want this for me.”

“It’s not about you, it’s about us.”

And that’s the best Zayn can do for right now.

He tucks Liam’s head under his chin.

Zayn doesn’t let go.

**/////**

The goal is to forget, to erase the itch of the fabric they’ve stitched around them. That’s the aim because it’s not as if Zayn wants to make Liam overlook the absence of what was never there; eventually it will bubble back to the surface, but if he can beat it down and rub it away, there will no longer be a void of blackness that encases Liam’s heart with what he wishes he had.

He has Zayn, and as selfish and fucking futile as it sounds, that’s all he needs. At this moment. No one else can make him feel like Zayn can, good or bad, they don’t make sense without one another. They’re the missing pieces to the puzzles they carved out specifically for themselves. And it’s toxic and poisonous, but so, so fucking good.

So Zayn, in all the effort he can posses, he gathers Liam close—if they can get closer still—and wipes away at his tear stained cheeks until they’re just rubbed red, raw with leftover emotion that won’t fade as easily as they both wish it would. Liam’s upset, perhaps rightfully so, but Zayn’s ready to do whatever it takes to show Liam that he’s there for him, not the bad guy waiting in the shadows. If Zayn ever had to choose, it’d always be Liam.

It has to be him—Zayn really, really wants it to always be him.

“We’re going—it’s all going to be okay.” Liam doesn’t shake his head to dislodge the falsities from Zayn’s placates, he just holds on tighter. And Zayn thinks Liam might be trying to squeeze him hard enough—long enough—that when he lets up it might be true. Zayn loses kisses in the mist-wet curling of Liam’s hair, and he murmurs. “I bet we look like a couple of girls, huh? Sitting here crying, drunk on a bottle of white wine.”

Liam’s laughter isn’t as honest or open or perhaps as loud as Zayn longs for it to be—the release of real laughter might be the only thing that can save them in the seconds that tick by in bubbled water and apologetic strokes. He picks up a surviving bandage that has warped away from Zayn’s battered fingers, Liam sticks it on Zayn’s skin, and laughs when Zayn’s temporary disgust leaves him disregardful of the man in his lap and the danger presented by the stone flooring crept at the edge of the hot tub.

Liam’s quietly amused, giggling and sticking a finger into the dimple of Zayn’s frown. “You’re the one whose drunk, you big baby.”

Zayn pinches him on his seal-slick thigh, and the proximity of his hands to Liam’s cock changes the taste of the air. “Wine makes me a little, shit—I don’t know, makes me crazy.”

“ _Horny,_ ” Liam breathes over the bridge of Zayn’s nose before freckling a less than naïve kiss there, because he knows the tales of flutters in Zayn’s stomach when he’s gentle, when Liam takes his time. And what it does to the patter of his heart when he’s faced with the ultimatum of where to put his hands. When Liam rises and falls upon his lap in increments small enough to go unnoticed until Zayn’s panting into the air that Liam’s drinking between them. “Wine makes it easy to get you hard. Gets me hard, too.”

“ _You_ get me hard.”

Liam doesn’t string together a wit-chalked reply, just takes the waste out of his lungs and breathes Zayn in with his open mouth. Their lips slot together, and there are indents being pressed into Zayn’s cheeks by the pads of Liam’s searching fingers. Zayn closes his eyes and slides his tongue into Liam’s mouth, whispering into the caverns of their wordless confessions and hoping Liam finds what he’s looking for. “Let’s end this night right, hmm, Li?”

Liam’s willing, different than he was a few moments ago as he’d been reluctant to even stare at Zayn. But now he goes with no remorse and less resolve. Maybe it has something to do with the way Zayn’s hand is skittering over his skin, enveloping Liam and dancing across the sun-kissed mass. It’s no different from the last time Zayn saw him naked, but he’s hoping a myriad of bruises might be left behind.

Reminders. That’s all Zayn wants Liam to have. The trust he has in Liam’s motives trumps any doubts he has about his execution. Liam will always have Zayn, always.

His lips meet Liam’s shoulder. Soft and subtle, but a hint in the right direction when he feels Liam tense for a short moment. This feels different between them, as if something’s mildly changed. But then again it feels the same, like all those late night secret hand jobs in the dark, or exasperated moans that slipped from Liam’s lips, never too careless in showing his feelings.

Zayn trails his tongue alongside the salty skin too, darting upwards until he’s reached Liam’s neck where he debates on attacking now, or saving until later. He goes for it, doesn’t take much of a thought when Liam’s hand slips down to his thigh and squeezes, encouraging Zayn.

Zayn needs no permission, given that Liam’s granted it already. His body, solid and broad against the water is ever pliant as he lets Zayn do his work.

“Are you gonna-” Liam’s the only one brave enough to break the silence.

Zayn answers with a twist to Liam’s nipple, the bud already hardened and silky wet under his fingertips. Truth be told, Liam gives up there, doesn’t need any other kind of verification from Zayn as to what’s going to happen because they’ll be falling back into old patterns. Zayn’s in charge, always has been, and while this isn’t the time to showcase dominance, Zayn feels like he has to prove that it’s all under control, that whatever comes out of them being together and the shit storm surrounding their lives will fall like snow, gentle and sweet without a scratch to the pavement they stand on.

It may be a lie, but it’s always hopeful in a moment of ecstasy.

Zayn kneads Liam’s flesh, likes the way the callousness is being softened by the water. “C’mere,” he requests, ready to move forward. He gathers Liam’s hand in his own bruised one and settles his palms against Liam’s waist so that he’s nothing but a tower over Zayn when his thighs straddle hips.

They don’t need orders—this isn’t their usual bout of skin on skin and words on clueless lips. Zayn can’t express his commands in slurred words and heavy pants, his hands guide Liam above the waters of their troubles and his lips provide the necessary oxygen Liam needs to survive the incoming tide of his worries.

Zayn’s hands travel the skin of Liam’s sides. “I hope you know—you know, right? I love you, you know that.”

Liam nods into the air, wet hair misshapen while he tries to ride the wave of the pleasure they’re inducing—it’s thick and heavy and it tastes like unresolved regrets and wanton ignorance when they breathe in. Liam’s nostrils flare, and his eyes peek out behind water clumped lashes when he speaks in a lazy exhale. “I know. You don’t have to tell me, Zayn. I know.”

All Zayn is left to do now is nod in amazement and try to keep his hands moving, his lips pursed and kissing. He needs to seek, to find. Before Liam, so Zayn can welcome him in to the feeling, whatever it is they’re both trying to discover before they leave this heated tub.

Most of Liam’s upper waist is above water, but that’s short-lived when Zayn forces him down, pushes Liam against the current and onto his legs so he’s sitting atop of him, cock already hard and sliding up against Liam’s ass. He grins, shyly, afraid for some of Liam’s bitterness to still be present, but it never comes. Instead, Liam’s hands find Zayn’s shoulders, soothing, wet, and perfect.

Liam knows, obviously, knows what Zayn is trying to do, and he’s more than willing to let it happen—to let him tease and put Zayn on the verge of want and warmth as a distraction. So Zayn continues on, lets the heat of the water fuel the desire in his eyes, working his way down and across Liam’s body, hand moving below water and towards Liam’s now half-hard cock.

He doesn’t mean to be quick about this, but if there’s any consolation, it’s that they’re within a time frame. They can relax, have peace, but Zayn knows Liam’s mind is racing and might break accordingly if he doesn’t act fast enough.

He only wants Liam to have Zayn on his mind.

“Fuck, _fuck._ ”

It’s very noticeable that it’s working though, especially when Zayn slips easy fingers around Liam’s prick, working the head and the foreskin gently, at first, before he slides down middle finger and thumb, a loose circle that’s not tight enough to give any amount of friction that Liam may end up searching for.

And also because Liam is cursing, which isn’t an easy feat in itself.

What it is, is a bit of teasing, at least enough to get Liam thrusting forward, balls caught between himself and Zayn’s lower stomach. It has him hard, fast, with so much heat that Zayn relents in favor of bringing his hand out of the water, shaking it off, droplets splattering against the pavement behind them, before he aims for Liam’s mouth. Thumb to lip, rubbing in smooth circles while Liam’s tongue darts out of his mouth.

“Don’t be an ass,” Liam pants, lip caught between those teeth of that impatient mouth, very insistent in its hisses and bitten moans. Zayn tries to unhook that lip—red and swollen, even if they’ve just begun—but Liam takes it back, tongue slipping out ever so often when he’s not caught in pleasure that draws that plush sin back into his mouth. “I need more, Zayn. More—fuck, _shit_ — _more._ ”

“No one likes a pushy bottom.”

Still one to argue, Liam—whose on his lap, naked, with his dick in one of Zayn’s hands, and his other palm at Liam’s face, lingering for splashes of tongue between stubborn rambles—argues with half-closed eyes and a mouth that gapes open and shut throughout his not so quick, and ever less accurate suggestions. “And what makes you think— _mm_ —I’m bottoming? Better yet, letting you— _yes_. Letting you top?”

“I’ll give you a hint.”

There’s not much of a breeze, but there’s a cooling affect against Zayn’s skin. And when it’s met with the fire of Liam’s lips tongue becoming familiar with the taste of water, Zayn pushes in to Liam’s mouth, ever so slowly. More fingers follow, a total of two, until Liam’s got his mouth puckered around Zayn’s digits, a new kind of something Zayn’s not afraid to admit he’s familiar with. At least, his dick is anyway.

Liam gently sucks, eyelashes fluttering against the top of his cheeks, still mildly wet from bitter tears. But his eyes, they aren’t red-rimmed, nor stained anymore with circumstance; rather they’re a little hazy, glazed over by instruction and in tune with nothing but need.

Liam’s once again making Zayn’s decisions for him, whether he knows it or not, making it a little easier for him to take control if he folds to his plan, goes where Zayn takes him. And he’s smiling around Zayn’s fingers, as much as he can anyhow, but Zayn can see it when they meet eyes. When their wills finally align, and things aren’t as hard to decipher anymore. And even if Zayn doesn’t completely understand Liam’s workings—or why he finds his eyes flittering over Zayn’s shoulder ever so often—he understands that they need this. They need to be stationary; on the same page for this to work at all.

So Zayn lets him continue sucking, knowing his fingers are well wet by now, will border on prune-like when they get out of the hot tub, but it doesn’t matter. Not in the slightest when he’s able to push himself back, the water helping maneuver both him and Liam into a slightly new position, one where Zayn is no longer sitting up straight, but resting against the side of the jacuzzi, head finding solace on the outer rim, hard and digging, but nothing of a bother when Liam’s like this.

Soon after, Zayn nudges Liam, just a bit and only enough to take back his fingers. There’s a bit of a sly smile on Liam’s face, but Zayn just returns it as he fumbles with trying to quickly find Liam’s backside. Zayn only circles Liam’s entrance, just as a tester because it hasn’t been like this for awhile, not for a long time because Liam’s stubborn and too dead set on making sure Zayn has his fill, that they don’t get this chance often. Which is why Zayn only starts with one finger, easily slides it in with a quick, sharp breath from Liam.

And still, Liam makes obscene noises, loud and unbitten and unmistakably purposeful. It’s dirty and hot and Zayn’s entirely appreciative, because they don’t get to be alone like this. They don’t get to scream and cry out and whine, so Zayn presses on. And Liam’s breath continues to hitch, louder and louder and more needy than Zayn can recall since—well, ever.

Neither of them looks concerned, which is what spurs Zayn on to push in until he’s knuckle deep. Liam’s response is to grind down, surely not enough for him despite the short amount of time it’s been. He handles pain well, always aimed to be at least as decent as Zayn, so when Zayn finally enters in another finger, it’s when Liam finally breaks, teeth finding his bottom lip despite his previous reprieve to scream if he felt so inclined.

Now Zayn isn’t sadistic, depending on who’s asking, but with Liam, no. Hell no. So he waits, rubs at Liam’s hip and waits until Liam gives the signal that he’s fine, he’s good enough to handle Zayn.

And all it takes is a nod before Zayn’s twisting, scissoring his digits and working Liam, pushing in as far as he can go and watching as Liam squirms above him. He pants, hands curling and nails digging into Zayn’s shoulders, and while there’s pain, mild, on his end, it’s so fucking worth it, having Liam again, like this.

Zayn’s heart swells.

“Ready? Can you, are you—ready?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and looking for the go ahead.

Liam, bless him, quickly nods, nostrils flared as he breathes. It’s not difficult to tell that he’s waiting, a moan on the tip of his lips. It’ll be so easy for Zayn, to take Liam and have him, remind him why this works, why they’re  _them_.

Zayn doesn’t play anymore, quickly removing his fingers from Liam to wrap his hand around his dick, water creating little waves as he pumps himself. He no longer has to guide Liam, no point in setting boundaries and rules because the younger lad is already at the ready, lifting himself up, closer to Zayn, bringing his mouth down to connect their lips as Zayn not only melts around that feeling, but tries to find some room in his brain to guide himself to Liam’s hole.

Liam helps too, reaches around and takes charge, only once, lining himself up easily before he’s sinking down, slowly, but enough that the head of Zayn’s cock finds warmth long before anything else. Liam, again, is so tight, his muscles constricting at the intrusion until Zayn is helping him along, bringing a greater focus to the joining of their mouths, sloppy and exaggerated. It helps, obviously, as Liam continues to lower himself down, and it feels amazing.

Zayn’s hand somehow ends up tangled within Liam’s hair moments later, and Liam keeps his grip on Zayn until he’s fully seated. And mostly it’s just rough breathing and patient waiting until he looks up sharply at the man in his lap, grins and thrusts upwards.

But Liam, while he takes it, decides it’s fair game now, sets his sight just behind Zayn’s head so as not to dissuade him from backing down and letting Zayn do all the work. It might be fire on Zayn’s end, something to prove with resounding sex, but he also knows just how much this is Liam’s territory too, and whatever spark has ignited, it’s driven something deep because Liam blinks away any water left in his eyes and eventually brings his gaze back down to Zayn’s, more determined and less resolute, less willing to be handed something. He’ll take it, Zayn knows, and he figures it’s best not to argue.

So Liam, he grinds down, wants to map out a good direction for his hips because he knows too that with them like this, so out in the open and too exposed for either of their liking, it won’t last. They don’t get many opportunities like this, mostly hidden behind things, and quickies just to satisfy. And with this, Zayn’s willing to have Liam own it without quietness, without a mild sense of secrecy, without questions.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he snips, just to rile Liam. He’s laid back, too chill and obviously looking like a king on his thrown.

Liam doesn’t strictly frown, but he does bite down hard before he’s pulling his body up and then letting gravity do the rest in defiance. The grin Zayn has only grows wider, until they’re both playing tug of war with more than just their smiles, but with their eyes, and their emotions, and their dignity. Whether they’ve both screwed up or not, it’s lost on them, and the water is a good substitute for their drowning animosity. Physical replacing the emotional. It cancels out, burdens the trouble of dealing with anything within the past.

It’s like Zayn’s being offered a piece of cake, a sweet deal to soothe the cravings.

With the water sloshing around them, no doubt a direct cause of Liam’s ever growing, confident movements of his hips, how he’s taken to rotating instead of straining his thighs, Zayn offers his mouth to other parts of Liam’s body. It means he’s got to sit up so that there’s barely any space between them, but it’s fine; he can relax when he’s dead. He also takes it upon himself to thrust upwards occasionally, not much effort, not like Liam’s giving; he’s the majority in this situation, but he’s nearly frantic about it, not slowing down as he ruts himself against Zayn, cock trapped between their lower bellies and swallowed in warm water that leaves it a nice red and pink.

It’s almost as if they’ve got an audience, the way Liam swirls his hips and lets the curve of his smile flit into a smirk, but if it makes Liam like this—pliant and abrasive and overly confident—Zayn doesn’t care who’s watching.

It’s a sight to see, Zayn not afraid to admit that if they were on a bed, he’d much like his mouth around Liam. Sex is incredible, always has been with Liam by his side, but the enjoyment of Liam heavy on his tongue is like no other.

And so because there is no opportunity to fulfill that kind of want, Zayn works a hand between their bodies, easily wrapping his palm around Liam. He’s met with a gasp, Liam’s little pants growing louder as Zayn works out the pressure building inside of them both. By now, he’s sure Liam’s found the right angle; for him it’s a totally different sensation when only his cock is trapped against tightening muscles. But Liam does him plenty of favors when he trails his fingers across Zayn’s skin, and uses his mouth to suck harsh bruises into his neck. Zayn knows that’s _his_ job, should be more fond of taking responsibility, but Liam’s a bit relentless now, desperate.

So Zayn uses it as a way to play, to find himself, using as much leverage as he can to pull Liam’s head back and attack. Liam might have more room to move, isn’t trapped into sitting like Zayn is, but at least he’s got the strength and the ability to hold his own.

“S’been awhile, hope you realize just how good it feels to take it up the ass every once in awhile.” It’s a smart ass comment, one that isn’t strictly needed, but he hopes that maybe Liam takes from this what Zayn’s always gotten: the lack of pressure, the release of stress. There’s nothing like hitting that bundle of nerves and using that as a way to feel alive.

Zayn finds that Liam’s not too bothered by it though, too busy mumbling and letting Zayn do what he can to enhance this experience. Liam’s still riding him hard, and Zayn’s release is so close, but it’s all on Liam right now. The need to get him off first becoming a rational part of his thoughts and a first priority.

So he tightens his fists, continues to keep his hand within Liam’s hair, and uses the water as leverage and an easy means to fuck up into Liam. It has Liam stuttering, his hips, at least, his movements at fault now that Zayn’s decided not to half-ass anything and join in. He keeps to himself, keeps quiet except for little encouragements directed towards Liam.

“Such a good—fuck, so tight. Feel so good. Better than any pussy, anything. So good, Li, really fucking good.” It’s a comment thrown in haphazardly that has Liam’s eyes ablaze and a deadly smirk stitched across his face between long moments of hazed euphoria. And there’s a gasp that he’s sure came from Liam, or maybe him—someone, but all he can focus on is Liam. It’s all Liam—it’s never been anything else. Zayn jerks him faster, tugs his hair harder. “Love you.”

It takes less coercing Liam into his final moments than expected, Zayn’s thumb pressing down against the slit of Liam’s cock, the hand he chose to unravel from Liam’s hair finding purchase against Liam’s ass, a finger grazing against the puckered, undoubtedly red hole. He doesn’t just keep it there either, but finds himself pushing it in alongside his cock, Liam’s eyes widening for a moment before he’s whispering that he’s _so fucking full_.

Not long after that, Zayn can tell when Liam finally gives in because his whole body goes taut, movements stalling, hips more than bouncing at this point. His balls tighten just below Zayn’s hand, and his cock twitches before it pulses, white seeping out, creating milky water between them.

Zayn thinks he might be mildly disgusted if it wasn’t such a brilliant thing to see. Liam’s baring his neck, head thrown back and softly rutting down on Zayn’s cock as he rides through his high. His insides squeeze tightly as he rolls his hips, overstimulation beginning to set in, and it’s then, with Liam’s cheeks flushed, eyes dilated and warmth radiating from his body, that Zayn finally gives in too, let’s go and releases himself within Liam.

He falls back, forgetting that it wouldn’t be safe to do so because of the edge of the tub behind him, but Liam’s quick, steadying Zayn and placing his hand as a cushion for Zayn to rest on while he rides out his own high. Liam does him no favors by staying where he is, just looking at Zayn with too much, things he’s positive he can’t even place. Zayn hopes that he looks the same, that there are stories and unspoken words written in the veins of his hazel eyes, but even if there isn’t, Liam doesn’t say otherwise.

The slam of the patio door sends Zayn into a panic that has Liam shushing him, soothing him with soft hands and fingers at his chin. “Look at me, it’s nothing.”

Zayn’s not so sure, because someone was there. Someone heard them and saw them, and someone is in the house. Liam’s not safe, and—“Who was there, did you see them?”

“Perrie.” Liam almost looks proud, and Zayn only registers all the clues after he sees the small look of pride and possession that flickers in the small amount of light that the evening graces them with. “It was Perrie, don’t worry.” Liam pushes him back, lips at the corner of Zayn’s mouth, hands still at the back of his skull in the form of precautions. “Let’s just lay here.”

Zayn calms, and they do.

They sit like that, a lot more sweaty and tired than normal, but sated until Liam takes it upon himself to slide off of Zayn. He lets him breathe, but doesn’t move away from the older lad either, never uncertain and certainly not angry enough with Zayn to deny himself whatever it is they’re supposed to be during post-coital interaction.

It’s silence, mostly, but it’s also so much more. A heavy weight lifted, a new found trust, maybe. It’s there, hanging onto the both of them instead of the ominous burden of the future.

“How long was she there?”

“The whole time.”

“ _Liam._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to my babydoll Noel for that amazing sex scene, honestly she's the greatest. I may have went through and added feelsing and stuff, and run-on sentences bc that's my forte, but she writes the best smut. The best everything, really. Thanks again, babe. Love you!


	5. this tragedy, it seems unending

Zayn finds a clean shirt to go with his wrinkled pants, and the carpet makes the thud of his footsteps a little easier to bear when he walks out oh his room and into the hallway. There should be more bodies scurrying around in the light of day, with the sun beaming on maids in the foyer, or cooks in the kitchen. But no one is there, everything is silent. All Zayn can hear are the soft snores of a carefully pieced together man coming from his room, and the blood rushing in his head.

Pump, pump, pump.

It’s a tangled mess, his thoughts, magnetized in the silence. But Zayn supposes it’s better this way—no souls around for him to collide with. The walls aren’t trying to swallow him, drink him down with the absence of lemon and citrus fragrant cleaning supplies.  That’s a sign that doesn’t immediately turn him away from his duties—his trek to Simon’s office, where Zayn has to face the wreckage of his hastily put together plans.

When he gets there, Simon’s absence doesn’t escape him, it’s all too obvious in fact. In the un-dented chair and the lack of papers strewn across the sun-soaked oak of his sturdy desk. The home phone is Zayn’s safest bet, and he has to feign ignorance as he sits in his father’s chair—pretend like this isn’t a symbol, a foreshadowing of what’s to come of him—as Zayn picks up the device and unpockets his cell phone to find Niall’s number and look at his call log.

When the first few rings meet his ears, Zayn pockets his cell phone, and gets to the calls that he’s missed while sheathed in the bubble of short-lasting fantasies. Zayn can’t act like this isn’t a defining moment, finding out what became of the previous night. The news that awaits him on the end of uncounted rings baits his breath.

“”S that you, Zayn?” Niall is out of breath, and sitting here in his chair—Simon’s chair—Zayn can’t picture him doing anything of extreme exertion. “Zayn? Ya there? That you?”

“Suppose it is, yeah,” he answers, fingers finding his mouth to paint a picture of nerves that Zayn has to admit he probably is. “You called?”

He could almost chuckle—Zayn actually thinks he does—when Niall huffs and the sound of insistent clacking greets Zayn’s ears from the other side of the phone.  “Ya know I’ve been trying to get a’hold of ya for ages?”

“That’s my fault,” Zayn admits, because it is. “I’ve been—uh—busy.” His paranoia gets the best of him, mostly because this conversation isn’t one they can afford not to have under safe grounds. “Is the line safe?”

“Wha’?” Niall could pass for offended. He questions Zayn’s piqued interest like it’s something that didn’t even occur to him, like securing his calls is so common that Niall can’t believe Zayn had the gall to ask. It serves well in distracting his anger at Zayn’s temporary disappearance, replacing that with a gasp and snort of derision. “Oh, yeah. Nah, I haven’t made a traced phone call since they tried to put Charles Morder in prison for vocally confessin’ to robbery on his work phone.”

That’s all settled, and Zayn listens for familiar clicks of wired conversations for a beat longer before getting on with his business. “So, how are we looking?”

Niall’s rushed speech makes the blood thrum that much faster in Zayn’s veins. “Well, there are—”

“Were there complications?” Zayn’s palm meets his forehead, and even he can admit that in that moment the flutter of birds outside Simon’s study, just on the windowsill, kind of scare the shit out of him. But ignoring them, he chews on his lip and sighs unnecessarily loud when his fingers cramp because he forget to re-bandage them from the night before. Also another welcome distraction that Zayn’s going to have to think about later. “Fuck, I told them to wait for you to call. Did they jump the gun?”

Niall’s quick to dissuade Zayn’s anger, but it’s already too late, and he doesn’t see himself settling down any time soon. “No, no—that was all good.”

“How good?”

Niall obviously has other things on his mind, Zayn can tell in the fast speech and the background noise—slurping and typing—Niall’s distracted and Zayn can confess that it gets on the wrong side of his nerves. “Frank and six guys were booked within minutes of each other, all had the same charges.”

“What would that be,” Zayn thinks out loud. “Assault of an officer?” He’s needy—he wants this, Zayn’s quick to speak and slow to think when it comes to this. And no matter how bright the sun shines on his bruised fingers and unplanned decisions, Zayn can’t say he has any regrets. “Murder?”

Niall clears his throat, and Zayn scowls lightly at the condescension, wiggling in his seat and wishing he would have picked his clothes from somewhere where other than the bedroom floor this morning. “The law doesn’t work like that, first, mate. But there weren’t any officers mentioned in any report on any ‘lectronic files.” Niall takes a slurp of something, and Zayn is so fucking glad that Niall can eat and drink when Zayn can barely fucking breathe during this discussion. “I can have someone check the manual transcript at the station, but if that doesn’t check out, you can wait for obit clippings. If that house was filled with agents, it’ll draw enough attention to make sure bases are covered.”

Zayn smiles, this is possibly the best news he’s heard since he got on the phone. “The DA will hang them.”

“Yeah, here’s hopin’” Niall confirms, another fucking slurp in Zayn’s ear. “But that’s not what—”

“And the house? Anything interesting left behind,” Zayn pushes, fingers at the risk of bleeding with his jittery teeth tearing at the nail beds of each finger.

Niall sighs and Zayn is tempted to ask him what the fuck is so important, but he stays quiet and patient and waits for his answers. “Filing cabinets and magazines for an arsenal. ’S not anywhere in a report, but I’ve got a mate that worked the tape. He said after they carried bodies out—they left two in overnight, I think, full morgue, but they’re on ice. It was empty except for what I told you. But what’s really—”

“Anything else I should know?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Zayn’s almost taken aback at the rise in Niall’s voice, it’s quite embarrassing how he flinches at the onslaught of Niall’s frustration when the lad isn’t even in the room. Zayn still finds his eyes widening, and his throat forcing a cough. “What I gave ya, that’s all I have on that, you’ll have to talk to Simon or Louis for more—someone, not me. That’s all I have on that subject.”

Niall’s baiting him, feeding Zayn selective words that are supposed to spark his hunger for more information. He bites. “What do you mean—that’s all you have for this? Is there something else?”

“Yes, ‘m tellin’ you—or ‘m tryin’ to.” Zayn can hear the excitement in Niall’s voice, a few steps up from the drone he’d spiraled into while rehashing things before. “A call was picked up for a double homicide. Three roses to the head.”

Zayn swallows, and it’s loud, he can tell from the subtle movements of discomfit he hears in loud wrinkles of clothing and stuttering keystrokes on the other end. “Red toothpick at the scene?”

“They’re looking for it, haven’t found it yet.”

The MO changes with each kill, Zayn watches the news enough to know that. Niall hasn’t sent him anything interesting, despite Zayn paying him nice and well for information no one is giving him. All of the victims are older; no one in Zayn’s generation has to fear for their lives, because Zayn’s never even heard of half the people losing their life to someone who can’t coin a better name than _Toothpick Killer_.

“You think it’s him,” Zayn asks, even though it sounds more like a confirmation, given the hype in Niall’s voice—his eagerness to make connections. “If you really think it’s him—”

“I know it is,” and Zayn really can’t put any holes in Niall’s sound admission.

Zayn smoothes one hand over the desk because idle hands have never done him any good. “Is there any thing you can do to prove it?”

That’s when Niall’s hesitation kicks in, and it’s not something that makes Zayn settle any easier into his seat. “There’s only one way ‘ve been able to connect ‘em so far, just the in town cases,” he rushes to finish, like Niall doesn’t want Zayn to be upset with information he doesn’t know what to make of. “It works every time, but you’re not gonna like it.”

There’s a road that he doesn’t want to take, one Zayn knows he’ll have to drive down on his own, perhaps Niall at his side—but Zayn’ll be leading the expedition. He looks around at his father’s office, and takes a stroll in his memories to his and Niall’s last conversation about this. Pictures of Zayn as a child, then a teenager, they all look back at him from their places on Simon’s wall, and Zayn takes the first step for each of those smiles.

“Tell me.”

“If it links back to Simon—I can—someone’s trying to frame him, I think, Zaynie.” Niall’s speech doesn’t soothe Zayn any, his words are rushed and hurried and lined with worry of what’s to come from Zayn’s mouth next.

So he speaks, Zayn does. Only if to quiet Niall’s blubbering.  “If you have something to say, Niall, get on with it.”

“Simon bought a minivan from Gladys Arnold two weeks before he made an offer on Jenkins’s house.”

He says it like it’s important, when all it does is make Zayn scratch at his face and shift once again in his chair. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?””

Niall expects it to be obvious, sighing in disappointment. “Those are the victims? Besides the ones on his route, those are victims who came in direct contact with him. Recorded contact.” Niall keeps going, and Zayn can feel his shoulders sink under the weight of newly added drama that he really just doesn’t need at this moment. Niall continues and Zayn’s fingers find themselves drumming bruised fingertips into the corner of Simon’s desk. “The toothpick—fuck, ’s a terrible name for a serial killer, mate. If I find a link to Simon from the vic, it’s our killer. Haven’t been wrong once.”

“No,” Zayn denies, because it’s impossible. Simon has done a lot of things, some that Zayn doesn’t have as much trouble agreeing with as Liam, but murdering at random, for no plausible reason, that’s not his father. That’s a set-up, and it has a familiar stench that he can’t waft out just yet. “There are a string of murders, ones way before London.”

“That’s why I said the London murders—in town, yeah? Each one points back to Simon.”

“You don’t think—”

“Don’t get paid to think, just inform.”

Zayn has a hard decision to make, but in the end it’s clear. Simon would never— _it’s not him._ And Zayn has to trust his instincts, his father, and do what he thinks is right. What he knows to be true—Simon is not a killer.

“Run it,” he speaks, and it’s not shaky. Zayn’s very sure of what he’s having Niall do. It’s an invasion of privacy, but he’s got to see if it checks out. Because the sooner they figure out each connection Simon has to every murdered victim, the sooner they can put an end to the bothersome suspicions. “See if anything comes up.”

Zayn’s not a detective, he likes to use his time for other endeavors, but he’ll do this. Have Niall do this, so he can bring this to Simon for him to deal with. Until then, it stays between Zayn and his hired tech.

“It could take a while.”

Zayn looks at the clock—tick, tick, ticking away in the corner of Simon’s office. Liam won’t be up for a while, and he hasn’t the slightest clue where Perrie’s run off to after last night. Zayn shakes his head, decides to stay put. “I’ve got time.”

Niall hums and does his business—a flurry of keystrokes and tongue clicking that’s supposed to distract Zayn from what this might mean. Zayn knows that Simon has no lack of enemies, yet still Zayn’s first suspect is Veronica, because she’s got her fingerprints on all of the things most recently causing Zayn discomfort. It can’t be Liam, he wouldn’t go this far to prove Simon a murderer—the fact that Liam even crosses Zayn’s mind while he complies a list of possible betrayers makes Zayn’s chest burn.

“Zayn?”

“Hmm?”

He has to draw himself from that corner, because Liam would never. There isn’t a doubt, now. His hate for Simon could never outweigh his compass for good. Niall’s speaking now, as well, another reason to bring himself back to the soft ground beneath his consciousness. “Still there? I think I might’ve found something.”

Zayn swallows. This is his last chance to turn back. Even Niall—sweet, honest, and gracious Niall—gives him a second to turn around. But Zayn’s throat clears and he’s speaking, fingers balled in a purple mess of hurt and anxiousness. “Hit me.”

Niall hums, accepts that Zayn’s doing this, and Zayn can’t really say he appreciates the additional moment of consideration before Niall’s talking again, fast and quick and surgically to the point. “I didn’t find any criminal links.  I still remember Greg saying Simon ran trade over there in that neighborhood, but the city just did these electronic archives for police officers to comb through—”

“Niall, get to the point.”

“Okay,” he succumbs, and Zayn can almost see him shaking the additional information from his head before continuing. “Well, when I reference The Moonlight Walk—”

“What the fuck is that?”

“The shop, Marie’s shop. She’s last night’s victim, her and her husband—” Niall stops himself from getting too connected, and Zayn thinks he should stop and weep for these people who are no longer on this earth, but he isn’t so sure that’s such a terrible fate. “There’s a grand opening article—they were closing down.”

“Keep going,” he interjects.

Niall’s sigh is very prominent, and Zayn doesn’t fault him for that—for getting caught in these people’s lives and secrets and deaths—but for his own sake, Zayn has to remain professional and unattached. “Marie and her husband were friends with Simon. He’s mentioned with an unnamed female philanthropist for backing their funds, ‘s a picture of ‘em all and everything.”

Zayn has to think, long and hard, but it’s unforthcoming. He speaks slow into the phone, mostly for his own benefit. “Why the fuck would he give a shit about some run down restaurant?”

Zayn knows his father, knows that’s not in his nature—to do things that don’t assure a profit—and he repeats the question even slower in his head, but still comes up short.

“I really don’t know why the cops haven’t gotten him for—holy shit.” Luckily it sounded like Niall found something to supplement Zayn’s thoughts, and he’s speaking almost comically fast in Zayn’s ear. “Simon gave a statement, it’s at the very end, and wow. Don’t even know what to make of it.”

But apparently, he’s not going to give said information to Zayn without coercion. “”What? Niall—you can’t—just get out with it.”

And Niall sounds all too eager. “Simon wanted Moonlight Walk open so he could propose—listen to this—to a _very special lady_ in his life. I didn’t know Simon was _married._ ”

“He’s not.”

Suddenly, Zayn doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his tongue and feet and eyelids.

Niall’s humming, like this is all fine. Like Zayn didn’t uncover information he meant to find, but still is unsure how to process. “Oh, well. ‘S all right there, pal. Same guy, same MO. The guys down at the station might have ignored the first couple of strikes ‘cause o’ who Big Si is, but third time is the charm—don’t know, Zayn.”

Zayn knows that. He knows that the Feds _—Veronica—_ will be all over this, local cops, even. He can’t think of any reason why they wouldn’t be, other than the fact that each connection is really kind of fucking stupid. A house he never bought, a car that Zayn has never seen him drive—a fucking minivan, you’ve got to be kidding—and an engagement to a woman that Zayn’s never heard about.

Simon wouldn’t invest in anything without good reason, and he certainly wouldn’t go in half with a partner if it meant splitting profits. But maybe if he was getting engaged to that partner, buying her a car and a house, then maybe he wouldn’t care how his money was spent.

Zayn sits up in his chair—he’s unsure why, just feels like it’s necessary. “Niall, who’s the lady?”

“What lady?”

“The philanthropist,” he asks, begs Niall to know. Because it all makes a little more sense when he pans it out. “Who’s the lady that went in with him to save The Twilight Jog.”

“Moonlight Walk.”

“Whatever,” Zayn shouts, calming himself when he hears a squeak come from the other end. “Who is she?”

Niall sighs at him, not amused. “I told you, she’s _unnamed._ ”

“Can you see her face,” he asks, after Niall confirms the thoughts he apparently voiced out loud. “Can you get a clear image?”

“’S covered, Zayn. They’re all listed at the bottom from left to right and where she should be, there’s a big ‘ol letter.” Niall sounds like he’s curious, like he wants to ask, but he doesn’t, just gives Zayn the answers to whatever questions he spews out.

“I want to know who she is,” Zayn demands, because this is the only lead he’s going to get. And he needs a little hope right now. He can’t go in the can in Simon’s place if someone else is trying to throw him in for different reasons. “Uncover her face, do your—I don’t know—computer stuff.”

Niall outwardly moans at Zayn’s lack of knowledge for how he works with his technology, but Zayn doubts Niall’s ever shot a gun or ripped out a fingernail in his life, so Zayn guesses they all have their strengths. “I can try.”

Zayn nods. Trying is good, succeeding is better. He tells Niall so, and isn’t even offended when he grits his teeth and retaliates with a slew of Irish curses. “I want you on retainer. This is your top priority, yeah? I want to know who she is by the end of the week.”

“Double rates?”

“Triple,” Zayn answers.

“You got it, boss.”

**/////**

It’s not easy to sit in the dark. And it’s certainly not any less difficult to do so with your responsibility meters down the corridor. The weight of Zayn’s day has long since settled on his shoulders. All the proper calls have been made and received, and the house is still barren sans for the broken three. One with pink—purple?—hair and a broken heart, the other with a broken spirit, and the remaining broken-handed.

Now all that remains on his list of duties is to break the news to his father—who still has yet to return home. He’s at the shops today, keeping his face in the public, Louis had told him. Though that doesn’t make Zayn feel any better with the knowledge of Simon’s framed murders stacking against them. And it’s not like the news will be easy to break, so there’s that.

Zayn isn’t certain how one is supposed to take the information of his son’s upcoming departure that will unsettle the sleeping boy upstairs, and leave his Nana in tears; Zayn can’t imagine it would be good. But the sacrifices Zayn makes for his family are between him and the cages of his soul. And whatever bars he might be sentenced to for however long are a lot more appealing to Zayn than the sight of Liam lying in a pine box.

“Sitting here in the dark after all that’s happened,” Zayn would know those footsteps—that _tsk_ —anywhere. It’s almost ominous and creepy how Zayn turns in his dad’s great, big chair to face him after the last few days he’s had. “That’s real healthy, son.”

It’s fresh air and calmed nerves looking at him, even in the dark, neither one of them reaching to switch on any lights. The same window that provided Zayn with birds and sunshine now brings him owls and moonlight, and it’s all very soothing. For over twelve hours, his only interruption a bathroom break and a skittish looking Liam signing off for a run and reporting back, he’s been alone in this room, in Simon’s office. And it’s nice to see a face that he can trust. One that doesn’t house any hard questions or expectant answers.

“I just needed to be alone, I guess.” Zayn voices his thoughts while he comes to the realization that this is all very short lived, his relaxed muscles and subtly smiling face.

Simon hums at him, and never one to disappoint, Zayn knows that Simon’s aware of the tension in Zayn’s throat—the constriction of small muscles that don’t want to move in fear of breaking the grin and light step that his father’s acquired in his time away—and Zayn’s doing a shit job in concealing his worry. He’s almost embarrassed at his thrown together attire when Simon slips off his jacket—neat and pressed like Zayn’s garments should be—and slings it formally over the guest chairs before walking to his cornered cabinet that bars the liquor.

“You could have done some guessing somewhere that’s not my study,” he suggests, and Zayn’s not petulant enough to chastise himself over his elder’s light teasing. It’s hackling, and they’re on good terms—great ones. Zayn has no need to feel subconscious, none the less his skin won’t stop itching. In the dark, Zayn can see Simon grab a bottle of wine that doesn’t immediately make Zayn want to hurl—high label, thank fuck. Zayn’s glad to see him retrieve two tall-stemmed wine glasses before turning with a grin that Zayn isn’t expecting. “Also, I just saw Mrs. Edwards crying on the front steps? You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

It takes Zayn a while to recognize the surname Edwards, but he catches on and grins. Simon’s never been good at being coy, and that hasn’t changed now with the curve of his smirk in the sheer light. Zayn nods at the suggestion of a glass, and when Zayn speaks, it’s with sweet wine on his lips to match his grin. “That’s all Liam, I’m afraid.”

Simon’s nod doesn’t distract Zayn from anything, not the subject upon them or the firm step of his gait. “You’ve built yourself quite the love triangle with those two.”

However savage it seems, Zayn can’t negate snorting into his glass. “It was never a competition between the two of them. Perrie is business, _your_ business,” he emphasizes with kind eyes, not to insult his father. “I just have to deal with her.”

Simon looks upon him, and Zayn can’t deny that after a while he grows uncomfortable with the reason for his stare, growing even more flushed when Simon somehow differentiates the bruises of his petty combat from the marks Liam had managed to make in whatever daze Zayn was caught within. Simon pokes at his neck, and Zayn can heel heat in his chest. “Seems to be working out for you, no?”

Another snort, because it’s ridiculous how his father is poking fun— _literally_ —at his escapades. His fingers are cramped and Zayn won’t hesitate to say that his soul is tired, but he still manages to show a row of teeth after a hearty choke of his rich drink. “I can’t believe I’m—no, you know what—I’m not talking about this with you.”

Simon waves him off, and Zayn fails to see a killer in the man that sits himself back in a guests’ seat while his son sits in his chair—a man who folds his legs and sips with a lift of his pinky finger. “Oh, come on,” he chimes, Simon’s voice a melody of light-heartedness and bubbled laughter. “I’m your dad. We can talk about these things. You’re my only son.”

Like he needs a reminder, Zayn thinks. “Liam’s kind of your son, too.”

When Simon shakes his head, it’s a no. That’s what a head shake implies, he supposes. And before Simon speaks, Zayn can make out the words in his twisted brow and the wave of his empty hand. “I haven’t been responsible for Liam since he moved out, maybe even before then.” _It doesn’t mean I don’t still love him,_ that’s what Zayn sees in Simon’s fond smile and prided chest. “Don’t look at me like that; cut an old man some slack. I lost track a while back.”

They both coin themselves as immature when they can’t conceal their laughter at the rhyming nature of Simon’s sentences. “Well even if you’re hanging up your fathering cap, I think we could find you a career in rapping.”

They’re wasting time, poking holes in a veil of darkness they don’t want to settle.

Simon nods, and stands on his feet to pour more wine in his empty glass. “I would find a future in children’s literature at the very least.”

They make themselves drink another sip, and Zayn’s glass is near empty when he looks to see Simon’s refilled for a second time. Drink after drink until they reach the subject they neither want to approach. Both of them start sentences at the same time, and laugh into the air of their mistakes. Another swig and Simon’s hand is moving back and forth to summon the beginnings of Zayn’s words.

But Zayn defers for another drink, and if that doesn’t show how much of a fucking coward he is, than he’s not sure how else to pinpoint it.

“What’s on your mind, son? Other than the obvious.”

Zayn can’t formulate an answer that doesn’t sound entirely ominous, so he settles with the first thing that comes to his tongue. “We have a problem.”

“On top of the ones we already have?”

There’s nothing about Simon’s chuckles that settle Zayn in his temporary seat. He drinks—more, Simon’s poured him more—and swallows it with the fill of temporary power that comes with parking himself in the throne of power that will forever sit in this room. No one can knock him down; Zayn can only succumb by climbing bottomward.

Zayn swallows and makes his descent. “The feds want you.”

As serious as this is, Simon seems to take it as a joke. He’s untouchable, but he’s not sitting in his rightful place, so it sounds sickly and wrong and Zayn so wishes that this conversation never had to take place. But what’s done is done and the duties that Zayn has to take upon himself will give him the sense of honor that he’s sought after since his father put a gun in his hand and black dreams in his heart.

“That’s real sweet of them to be thinking of me,” he remarks, and by now Simon’s glass stands in the light of his desk, casting shadows over documents and papers and Zayn. His hands rub back and forth, and Zayn almost asks him if he’s cold, but the real bite of chill lies in his eyes where he gauges the severity of Zayn’s truth. “You’ll have to send them a card; I’m afraid I don’t have the time for a relationship.”

“I’m glad you see this as a joke, but I’m very serious.” Zayn finds himself at his limit, fast and blinding, but he’s reached it. No one seems to understand that this is _their lives_ they’re sacrificing, because they’re stupid and weak-willed and selfish. Because Liam wanted a different family and Simon wanted a son. “They’re trying to bury you, and they’re going to use me to do it.”

He doesn’t say Liam’s name, doesn’t tell Simon that Liam wanted Simon buried in the first place, but not he’s compliant. While Zayn sits here in this chair with an empty glass and a heavy heart, Zayn knows that temporarily extracting Liam and inserting him back into Zayn’s life with information he shouldn’t have, that was shot fired in his direction. Veronica wanted to make him bleed, so here Zayn is, bleeding.

“We cover our tracks, we’ll have—”

“I’m turning myself over, Simon.”

And the gushing has begun.

It’s become business as usual, but the bandage of Simon’s stiff shoulders and folded hands doesn’t soothe Zayn like it should. It doesn’t remedy the hole in his gut because it’s too late to be practical. Zayn’s got to stand and be a martyr for the sole purpose of not letting anyone be the victor of his fate besides himself.

“You’re going to what?” Simon’s upset, Zayn doesn’t need a light or eyes or even the ears on the side of his head to know that. “No,” Simon’s shaking his head, Zayn is flattered. “Absolutely not. What did they pin you with? Entrapment?”

Only Zayn doesn’t want to hear arguments, because it’s a long climb from the throne, but it’s going quickly and there’s only so much time left for him to call the shots. “I’m turning over my half of the club, I’ll plead to something basic.” Zayn shrugs, because at this point he’s forced to pretend it doesn’t hurt to say all of this out loud. “I’ll let them stick me for drug charges. We just got some slimy recruits.” Zayn laughs, it’s almost funny. “I’m sure the La Fazia brothers would love to help see me behind bars.”

Zayn’s most admirable model of respect keeps his mouth seamed for almost a full moon’s passing, that’s what it fucking feels like. Time goes by, Zayn can tell in the _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock at his wall. Zayn doesn’t find a need for distraction as he waits for the permission of the man he plans to take a stake for, but Liam’s eyes and smile and long fingers still flash across his brain, and he hopes that no one ever tells Simon that he is the reason Zayn will become a prisoner to the fate set upon them.

“Eleanor will kill you if you run her business into the ground.” Simon is the gruffest Zayn’s ever seen him when he says those words.

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no. Zayn realizes his glass to the tabletop and sits up straight. “Are you kidding me? Most of the customers we have now go to MVP looking for snow.” Zayn tries to reason, he’s thought of all possible outcomes this could bring. “With my ties, no one will be surprised. Once they cart me off to wherever the fuck they want to hold me, all the unsatisfied customers will come crawling back after my arrest.”

He’s not being reasonable, Simon. What Zayn had previously taken as a look of pardon, is now one of condemning pity. “Which is what I’m having the most trouble with, your arrest. Zayn, you don’t need to go to jail, or prison.”

It’s fucking ludicrous that Zayn has to explain himself. Simon should take the bargain for what it is, and go on about his business. Run the rest of his life as he pleases with Zayn doing time for faux crimes far less brutal than the ones he’s actually committed. No one is a saint, there isn’t an innocent soul that roams this house.

“I don’t see what’s so hard to understand. I go to jail—prison, maybe—and you don’t. I confess to crimes, so they stop looking for other ones.”

“What makes you so sure that they’ll stop with you? This could be the beginning of something that will put _all of us_ in prison.” Simon regards him as a child, uncaring for the place Zayn holds in this room. His eyes aren’t fatherly, because he speaks as a man concerned for his livelihood.

“I’ve got a meeting with a bitch agent,” Zayn bites his tongue to keep the truth on the dock of his lips. His features are schooled to be unrevealing. “All I have to do is make one call, and it’s—”

“It’s done?” Simon’s timbre has grown deeper, and his voice springs louder with the alcohol doused lightly on his inhibitions. “Is that what it is; just over?” Simon’s lips press together, and all Zayn is equipped to do is watch. The frustrations of his father dance dangerously across his face while Zayn makes an impatient beat on the thick arm of the chair with his drumstick fingers. “What does Eleanor have to say about this? Louis? Any of your captains? I have no doubt that _Liam_ is furious.”

Simon knows how to place the straws in clever stacks to break the camel’s back. Zayn can’t see himself, but he’s sure he envisions that of a fuming boy when he stands abruptly, joined quickly by Simon because sitting in the throne doesn’t mean pissing on the king. “Liam will follow his orders,” Zayn roars, and he surely hopes it’s a roar, but he can see it fail to strike fear and recognition into Simon as he sneers back at Zayn.

“You and I both know that Liam is not a _foot soldier._ ” Their breath is heavy and their shoulders are sharp in the rise and fall. Simon doesn’t look away when he corrects Zayn’s way of thinking. “He doesn’t do what he’s _told_ , he does what he _wants_.”

That’s Zayn fault—Simon doesn’t have to voice it, Zayn knows that he thinks it. Liam’s never wielded a weapon or carried a burden that was not fit for a child. Zayn has crippled him time and time again, and he’s doing it once again. But this will be the last time, the greatest gesture. “I’m doing this, and you can fucking _stay_ unhappy. This is just me giving you a heads up, I’m not looking for authorization, Simon.”

“You’re insane.”

Maybe he is, what’s so bad about that? Being crazy for the things he loves? Being radical to hang on to his steamed suits and fast cars? A large house that holds his family and a home that his Nana will finish growing old in? Veronica will leave them in shambles if Zayn doesn’t rise to her bait. “I’m protecting my family.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

As simple as it sounds, that’s the cave Zayn needed, and though Simon still stands, his shoulders are flax and his guard has fallen. Zayn is the most honest he’s ever been when he says, “I wasn’t raised to ask for permission to do what’s needed of me.”

He walks away, but Zayn doesn’t take it for a cower. When Simon returns to the front of his chair, he bares wine in his hands and he’s pouring a glassful for the both of them before taking a drink that can’t be strong enough to quell the thoughts in his head.

Zayn doesn’t know if he could ever search to find enough words for the gratefulness that sits inside his chest as Simon drinks, and takes his glass away with the faint lingering of a smile. “If I let you do this, Liam will never forgive me.”

Zayn doesn’t have much choice, he raises his glass as well—worn knuckles be damned—the clink is of great significance, and he can’t say he’ll ever forget it in all the years he lives. The ring of trust and pursuit lies in those touched glasses, and Zayn has never been prouder to call himself a son. “Trust me,” he says with honesty. “He’s not your biggest fan even now.”

“I will think of something else, Zayn. You don’t have to do this.”

Zayn nods. “I want to.”

Simon’s adamant in nodding, and Zayn is finally able to step from the back of the desk to give Simon his seat again. “I think that’s part of the problem, son.”

They settle and finish their drinks. Zayn is done here, his piece has been said and all that remains of his guilt is well hidden. It’s less serious than they’ve portrayed it here. But Zayn’s burdens are still his to carry, even if he carries those of others he’s encountered along the way. His feet walk across the floor, but the phlegm in Simon’s throat is cleared to draw his attention. “Liam really is going to try and kill me if they do come and lock you up, you know.”

There’s a laugh to his father’s voice as he says this, but Zayn doesn’t take him for a fool to think what he’s speaking is untrue.

Zayn gives him a hearty nod to go with the yawn that escapes him. “Good thing you were throwing in your towel for Father of the Year, yeah?” 

“Good thing,” Simon agrees, his chuckle coming from somewhere deep and genuine, and Zayn thinks that they might all be okay. Really believes it. “I don’t think I would have stood a chance once the rumors got out.”

“Rumors,” Zayn questions.

Simon points to Zayn, namely to his neck and chest. “That my kid gave my other kid a hickey.”

“Oh my fucking god.”

**/////**

Veronica doesn’t take much convincing to get to one of Simon’s silent corporations, which just happens to be a high-class burger joint, should such a thing exist—which is why he’s a silent partner. Despite its Americanized nature, it does enough business to be crowded in the middle of the day. Spotted with enough people that Zayn trusts himself not to shoot Veronica on sight in fear of early incarceration.

Zayn taken enough time to heal and let things smooth over with Tudor’s arraignment. Still, no one has charged him or his men for harm to a federal agent, whatever those charges might actually be labeled as, but Zayn’s keeping an eye out. The murder charges are sticking, though, and Zayn can breathe a little easier with that out of the way, at least.

Feds or civies, manslaughter is not something anyone takes lightly.

That leaves the head of Zayn’s second biggest problem behind cold, hard bars of steel and unforgiving metal. And the rest of his crew is too preoccupied for retaliation at the moment, but Zayn stays ready. He has to. Now that he’s faced with fewer enemies on his list, he’s free to focus his attention on the handful of missed calls and demanding threats he’s received from his long lost sister over the past two weeks. 

“Do you think I’m ever gonna get to meet the mysterious Yaser?” Zayn adjusts his tie and runs steady hands over the wrinkles at the top of his trousers. “Because the longer this goes on, and the more your best friend keeps threatening me—”

“She’s not my best friend,” Liam says, scowling.

“The less I think it’s going to happen. I mean, does he even exist?”

Liam assures him so with a nod. “He exists.”

Zayn frets, can’t stop himself from doing so. His reflection stares back at him and Zayn sees himself without really looking. It’s all he can do right now, this early in the morning with his regard for his life decisions still rising from their temporary sleep chamber. “And you’ve met him?” Zayn stops to think, because this is a subject he can think about without his head pounding. “Maybe he tricked you.”

“I would know your father,” Liam justifies, and he’s a sight in the mirror, lying in Zayn’s bed behind him with stark white sheets drawing up his torso, a vision that Zayn doesn’t want to leave behind. “Yaser looks just like you, spitting image.” Liam fidgets in a delicious way that has his muscles tensing in the pit of his stomach, muscles that Zayn has to bite the ends of his lips not to turn around and stride towards—to lick and bite and lave until Liam’s not being such a pain in the ass at nine in the morning. “Now stop trying to change the subject, Zayn. That’s the third thing you’ve brought up since I asked—”

See? Being a dick. It’s normal to stop your advances when someone makes over two attempts to stop your questioning. Instead, Liam presses on—writhes in that bed while he tests Zayn’s patience.

“Since you asked to leave the house,” Zayn finishes for him. “Which is not happening, so stop asking.”

Liam pouts and lifts himself up from the bed just so he can create a point by throwing himself back against the sheets.  Their bed— _their bed,_ he smiles—is filled with mismatched off-white and yellow sheets, and lumpy pillows fluffed from repetitive use for both of their hissing mouths. Zayn tries to make out the little rips in fabric that he knows are there, but he can’t see anything sans for a fuming man his bed.

Their bed, whatever.

Liam’s hand smoothes over his stomach in an attempt to distract Zayn, probably, but it’s not enough to lapse his judgment even temporarily. He smiles at Liam in their joined reflection. “You can stop touching yourself,” Zayn states, combing over any stray hairs at the top of his head, and coughing into his palm to check his breath once more before he sets off to leave. “I said no, and I’m going to keep saying no.”

“I am not a child,” is most likely the worst thing Liam could say right now, with his arms crossed and his bottom lip jutted out in a way that says he is so as such.

“Then you should probably stop acting like one.”

_“Zayn.”_

There isn’t a need to sigh, because Zayn’s done this song and dance before. He’s sighed and rolled his eyes and yelled, but Zayn can’t control his body’s reaction to Liam’s natural whining. Meaning Zayn sighs anyway, exasperated at Liam. “We’ve been over this.”

He’s eager to get out of this house, Zayn can tell as much by how he’s quick to get to his knees in the mattress and beg. “I know,” Liam reminds Zayn—that they’ve fucking been over this—“I’m supposed to follow your rules, but this is getting really ridiculous.”

Zayn stops him before he can say please, because Liam begging is a sight that he’d much like to reserve for a time when Zayn’s not irritated and late for a very important meeting. “There is one person that I don’t want you seeing. The only place I know she won’t be, is in this house.”

“I get it,” he says, deflated, only a little, though. Liam’s still on his knees, and there’s still time for him to chisel away at Zayn’s resolve. “But you’ll be with her.”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t get someone else to get to you.”

“Veronica won’t,” Liam defends.

And Zayn doesn’t want him defending her, he can’t take it today. It’s too much. He fumes, and he hopes— _prays_ —that Liam sees what he’s doing to Zayn by bringing this up once again. “I’ve just about had it—”

“I _don’t care,_ I’m leaving. Going to get a coffee, or a scone, a fucking biscuit.”

Liam doesn’t respond to Zayn’s swinging hands or flared nostrils. He’s just about to climb off the bed, eager to make a run for it, but Zayn’s there, and his fingers are curled tightly around Liam’s wrists. He can feel the bruise he’s bound to leave there. Zayn thinks its might match the fading ones around Liam’s neck, or maybe the ones in either of the marks on both of their hips.

“Sit down,” Zayn begs, because he doesn’t have the energy for a fight. Not when he has the biggest battle of this entire war coming up, one he has to cross his fingers and batten down his hatches to win. Zayn doesn’t possess enough anger to lash out at Liam, not if he’s saving all the ferociousness of the day for his sister and her smooth smirks and cold eyes. “And please, _please,_ shut up. I have so much shit to do to say,” he reasons, fingers going lax around Liam’s wrist until their eyes are meeting, and Zayn is hoping his apology can be heard in the steady blink of his lashes. “I don’t have time to do this.”

Liam’s a rock, though, always has been when he gets panicky—which is exactly what he is now—and Zayn can respect his thoughts on Zayn’s safety. But he can’t rally that with stripping away his own. “I’m a _this_ , now?”

Zayn can only smile, that’s the only thing he has plenty to waste—love. His affection for Liam shines in the way he doesn’t dismiss him and lock him right in this room without his permission. “I’m not, _not_ doing _you,_ ” he says, using his light grip on Liam to bring him closer. His lips closer, his body. “I’m not doing your tantrums.” He kisses Liam, because he’s kissable. Because he can. Because Zayn wants to. “Or your fucking fits.”

It’s not hurried, or rushed, but it doesn’t lack passion when their lips fully meet. Liam’s hands don’t move, and Zayn doesn’t move them for him. They’re connected by their hearts and souls, and right now their tongues. Zayn leans back, leaves a breath of space between them. “Now you,” he whispers. “You, I can do. Just not right now, I’ve gotta go.”

Liam nods, and Zayn thinks that maybe he could be alright with this for now. One last peck, and Liam’s laying down again. Zayn watches him for a second, wants this ingrained in his brain for him to remember for the rest of his days—Liam obedient and lazy and warm with white sunshine, and pink with blushing kisses. “I still think you should let me come. I know Veronica.”

Zayn nods to show that he’s heard him, that he appreciates Liam’s opinion. But Zayn’s doing things his way. “And I know you, and your very forgiving and naive heart. So stay here,” he says, it’s not a command, just a request that he wishes with all of his torn heart that Liam will listen to. “Shower. And please don’t leave. I’m not ordering you,” he barters when Liam’s nose rises at him. “I’m asking, okay? Not telling.”

“We all know how much you’d hate to do that,” Liam mumbles, but it’s half-hearted and it only cuts Zayn a little just below his rubs. “Eleanor’s coming over anyway, so you can stop pretending you’re not keeping me locked away in some messed up kind of tower.”

That spells trouble, Liam and Eleanor alone unsupervised.

“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, I think you missed your mark.” As much as Zayn hates himself for it, when he draws Liam back up into his arms, he’s bopping Liam’s nose without forewarning. But it makes the both of them smile, so Zayn can take the self inflicted dig at his dignity. “No spilling secrets that could have me beheaded.”

Liam laughs at him, and Zayn punishes him sternly with a hand full of tickling fingers to his exposed—and very lean—rib cage. “Pretty pussy move of you to wait until you’re locked up to uncap Eleanor’s wrath.”

Zayn’s lips find his neck, and he really does wonder when he last let Liam out of bed to shower, shit. “Says the person who compliments Eleanor’s hair everyday just because you don’t know if she still wants to punch the shit out of you.”

Liam prods at his stomach, and they both stay very silent when his fingers graze the Wesson that lies between their bodies. “Language,” Liam whispers, but all Zayn can hear is, _“be careful, and I love you.”_

They never last for very long in the thinly veiled bubble of their fake reality, but when it pops, it still fucking hurts. Zayn breathes Liam in, must and all, because he wants to remember. Or, he never wants to forget. “You fucking _stink_. How’s that for language?”

They don’t move for a while, Zayn can’t make himself leave, but the clock inside of his skull beats at his brain until he can’t fill any more seconds with the feel of Liam’s hipbones or the scent of his neck, not even the feel of his lips creeping up on Zayn’s ear to whisper platitudes that Zayn thinks Liam means with his whole heart.

“I have to go.”

And he’s rewarded with one last kiss, a metal Zayn’s not sure what he did to deserve, but he preserves it anyway, and returns the favor with slick lips and tense fingers. Liam holds him from jaw to ear with both hands, and he does this thing where he looks at Zayn like he might not ever get to see him again. “Take a shower,” Zayn interrupts, because the longer he stays in this spot, the less likely he is to leave. “I mean it.”

“I don’t stink, jackass,” and Liam’s covering his mouth, just now noticing that he’s been cursing up a storm since he woke up that morning to open curtains and Zayn’s lips around the head of his red and leaking cock. “It’s not like I get to go anywhere.”

“Play your cards right, and I’ll pick you up for Joe’s later tonight.”

“So I’m a kept boy now?”

“Only just now?”

Zayn’s laughing on his way out, a flurry of tattered pillows following him out. “Get the fuck out.”

“Swear jar!”

Liam says that he hates Zayn, but neither of them believes it.

**/////**

Zayn has counted his days well. His face is void of any marks, unless one should look behind his sunken eyes and his thin coat of men’s foundation. She will, Zayn knows that Veronica’s character is laced with a sense of detection for holes in façades, should she be anything like the brother he knows himself to be.

“Asshole looks good on you,” she says the moment Zayn’s close enough for her to insult. “But not nearly as good as those fading bruises on your face.”

Zayn doesn’t know why she flinches when he smiles, but she does, so he grins more effectively. Niall hasn’t patched him any new information, and even if Zayn can’t prove anything, it’s pinned to Veronica’s evil grin—the murders of men and women only guilty of associating themselves with Simon, which in her eyes is a crime in itself. Zayn still has to hold the contents of his small breakfast in his stomach as he lowers his body into the chair accompanying her table.

“I would say it’s nice to see you,” Zayn addresses her with a smile she can’t ignore, it’s bright and exudes genuine thrill and Zayn pictures it as blinding. “But my father taught me to lie _with_ women, not to them.”

The crease in her brow is not at all inquisitive, just judgmental. “Oh,” she points out, dotting the thought in the air with one of her fingers. “And which one would that be? You have _so many_ fathers it’s hard for me to keep track of which moral code you’ve inherited.”

Zayn can admire her sarcastic nature, he thinks it might be somewhere buried in their genetics to combat all things with a witty remark from a well stocked repertoire. Zayn finds himself folding his hands and nodding when he’s offered a glass of water with lemon as he formulates his response. He speaks with a smile after a cold sip. “That would be the one not trying to put me in prison. Simon’s quite the teacher.”

“He’s also the one we want in prison.”

Zayn’s tongue almost does the honor in preceding his thoughts, but he’s able to keep himself in check at the last second with a thumb to the corner of his mouth and a practiced lift of his lips. “I believe we’ve already discussed that. Not in length, so I can see how you’d forget.”

It’s vile, the way Veronica looks at him and sees something she processes as helpless. Something she can control with the roll of her tongue and a few strung together letters of their common alphabet—that’s all words really are. Zayn asks himself if he believes she really did do it—cut down all of those people. He wants to know if it felt good, if she came alive at the joy brought by seeing someone lit with pain that came from her hands.  Zayn thinks she might have smiled, but he wants to _know_ —he needs it. Needs to know if she’s anything like him.

What separates them? What saves Zayn from being the monster in front of him? Is she really his reflection with plumper lips and longer hair. Is her core as black as his, even underneath the guise of good-doings and loved ones? Because a rotten apple, even if only partially rotted, is still rotten.

Veronica’s fork clinks against her glass—a sign of displeasure with his silence—and raises Zayn from his pit of troublesome questions. He clears his throat and hopes the wonders in his larynx dislodge as well.

“And as _I‘ve_ said before,” she reinstates with a greedy gaze on the freedom Zayn holds in the air around him, he’s not caged in a corner and the foam starts to appear at her mouth—metaphorically, of course. Or maybe literally, the way she’s gritting her teeth at him now. “That’s not what we’re here for. It’s not really what you want, either, Zayn.” She smiles, and he truly believes that she thinks she’s got all of his cards in her hands. “I’ve talked to Liam, he doesn’t want this, not for you. You haven’t upset him enough?”

Zayn gets the chance to laugh in her face, but he doesn’t grab a hold of the opportunity with wide and eager hands. Instead, Zayn holds his cards away from Veronica because what ears her the privilege of knowing the renewed dynamic between him and a man she’s tricked herself into knowing? Her power is limited—he’s stunted the beast to a very tight leash—and she hasn’t quite caught on yet.

It was almost a tragically beautiful thing seeing her in the blissfully ignorant state just before her pieces crumbled all around her. “You haven’t talked to Liam lately, then? That’s an attitude and a half ago, right before I stopped letting him hang out with you.” Zayn’s grateful for the cold slide of water that passes his lips and soothes his ticklish throat. He gives Veronica a nod and a smile. “It’s good to see he’s keeping his promises.”

She’s gnawing at her leash almost instantly. “So you’ve brainwashed him?”

The foam at her mouth might be real, maybe. If Zayn looks close enough. Her eyes are almost closed, with how much she’s slanted them to look at Zayn with irises of disgust. He laughs into his cup, and declines when offered a menu—never has he found himself in the mood for a burger before noon. “Don’t look at me like that,” he admonishes, waving away his server and leveling Veronica with a fair gaze. “You brainwashed him first, I just fixed what you messed up.”

But that doesn’t come out as right as Zayn would have hoped—he’s not fucking brainwashing _anyone,_ dammit. So he takes his tongue in a different direction. “I brought some things with me,” a handful of files make their way onto their table, their tall glasses the only other things sitting between them and their animosity. Zayn pans out the files he’s set in front of her. “I’d like to get this processed as soon as you can manage.”

Zayn has arranged his proposal on the table. Documents of false testimonies are contained in little manila folders, ones that he’s strung together with fabricated medical incidents that miraculously escaped the front pages of any news junkets. Altercations with police that won’t be looked at too closely if they want him behind bars, all of them drug related. All the things someone needs to build a case of solid drug possession and distribution against Zayn.

Veronica reads, and Zayn tries to put his thumb on what unsettles him the most about her. In the end, he’s not sure why the raven quality of her hair makes him stiffen so hard in his seat, maybe because it marks the soul she doesn’t have. Black and shiny and alluring in all the wrong ways. Zayn’s also not sure why the way Veronica hums underneath her breath like a common woman makes Zayn want to peel back his skin and physically rip out the itch she’s created. Because she’s not an everyday woman, she’s not _ordinary,_ and her claim on the human species is a falsehood. One cannot be a person and a venom spitting monster simultaneously.

“This is all very neat—”

But Zayn isn’t fond of the way that sounds coming from her lips. “Say _but_ in the next five seconds and I’ll cut your tongue right out of your goddamned mouth before you can pronounce your _t_.”

Her eyelids flutter too quickly to be a coincidence; she takes Zayn for his word, as she should, because he’s very serious about the deal he has literally placed upon the table. She rearranges her argument, and Zayn can see her calculating which angle she should try next. Veronica’s a prim talker if she’s set on getting her way, she’s like that now, and it leaves acid at the back of Zayn’s throat.

“You do know you’ll die in prison.” Zayn can’t fault her for being callous, won’t as long as she doesn’t prod him to be more concerned. Death is a master they’ll each meet. “This isn’t the Sopranos, you won’t get a special room to conduct business.”

Her palms are steady on the table, and Zayn can’t take his eyes away from the scars he let wood deflect into her cheek. He smiles on the inside, and his mind’s eyes sees her weeping over scars she’ll never rid of, and that helps Zayn swallow the bile in his throat whenever he looks into her eyes for too long.

She changes her tone of voice, though Zayn can’t see how much more serious she could get. “They’ll put you in the yard.” Veronica lifts Zayn’s files only to drop them back on the table with a thump that Zayn can hear ringing in his ears seconds and seconds later. “These charges will get you a year, maybe. No prosecutor will put you away for something like this, they’ll get laughed out of town. None of this,” she makes her point very clear with a shake of her finger. “None of this at all will be heavy enough to chase the DA off your tails.”

Zayn is reduced to shrugs and small lip movements. He needs another drink, something stronger than lemon and water. “If I don’t do this, they get Simon. Or our street crews find out about Liam. I’d cut myself neck to neck, then, too.” It’s all very simple in his eyes, and she doesn’t know what honor is. What it’s like to love for redemption instead of hating for vengeance. The feelings are equally as strong, but the benefits of one far outweigh the other. “I’m not scared of Francis we’ve got plenty of guys on the inside that Simon will make very happy to keep his son safe.”

“Will he,” and Veronica’s trying to get into his head again with that question. “Would he really, Zayn?”

But Zayn doesn’t need her doubts; they’re not justified by anything. “He would.”

Zayn takes another drink and Veronica’s disbelief starts a boil underneath his skin.

“As for the DA,” Zayn starts when her eyes begin to attempt drilling holes in his skull. “They should get used to seeing a lot of me, and even less of Simon.” Zayn’s shoulder lefts, and he uses the provided napkin to wipe away crumbs that don’t exist—but it gives him an action to be fulfilled by his hands. “If they don’t back off, we’ll shut down completely. Then they won’t get shit.”

“You know I could have you cuffed for just saying that.”

All Zayn does is laugh, and all she does it fume—it’s a becoming story, actually. “Yeah,” he agrees, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She’s angered by him, it shows in the flare of her cheeks and the sharp stare of her eyes. “This isn’t _fun._ This isn’t a game, Zayn.” She leans closer, and Zayn asks himself if he’s supposed to be scared at her quick approach. “I know what you did,” she whispers, though it rings loud enough in Zayn’s ears that she should have yelled. “And I’m willing to testify.”

Zayn rolls his eyes—a family trait—because he can’t believe he’s dealing with this again. He’s aware of his crimes, and when he sleeps at night, he pays for them in the twist of his sheets and the clammy hands of a boy he’s sacrificed everything for. Maybe he’ll see a few faces, maybe he won’t. But Zayn’s morals still belong to him, and he knows what the rules are: kill, or be killed. Every victim of his gun—and those of Tudor—were willing to kill Zayn.

To hang him, at the very least.

But before they could do that, Zayn cut his losses—his conscience and whatever remained of the tarnished blot of a soul sitting inside his ribs or his stomach or nowhere at all—and he got to them first.

So he won’t sweat, because Veronica doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of seeing him do so.

“In what trial,” he asks, curious to learn what Veronica thinks she knows. “I’m confessing to drug charges, they’re not going to waste their chance to put me away on a testimony with no trial.”

“The one where Simon will be charged for the suspicion to commit murder.”

Zayn calls her bluff. “You can’t prosecute on suspicions, and this isn’t about Simon.”

But he can’t make out the lie in her curved smile and heated eyes. “You can when it’s Simon Cowell, and the victims are 10 odd strong of the federal government’s finest. Don’t kid yourself, Zayn. This has always been about Simon.”

No.

“ _No,_ ” Zayn shakes his head furiously, and his hands shake without being granted permission around his sweating glass. “I’ll confess to all of those charges before they even get a chance to breathe in Simon’s direction,” he snarls, the primal side of his anger making way and revealing itself in light of Veronica’s unveilings.

The way Veronica clicks her tongue gives Zayn the urge to yell from all the rooftops. She laughs in the face of what could be her last second—he’s that close to fucking shooting her—but she manages to speak after controlling her amusement. “Taking the bullet twice in a row, Malik? They’ll either think you’re an evil genius, or a really _stupid_ scapegoat.”

“Let ‘em go with evil genius.”

She’s won and Zayn doesn’t even need to hear her voice it to know it’s true. “And let Francis go free? If they can pin it all on you, they will. And he’ll be on the outside slaughtering your precious family, if he doesn’t have it planned already.”

Zayn doubts that, and he trusts Simon to keep Liam safe, if Liam will let him. “We’ve cut him off at the knees.”

She’s unhappy with that revelation, and it’s showcased in the slap of her open palm on the tablecloth. “They’ll connect Simon with this, I’ll make sure of it.”

Zayn sneers at her, because that’s all he’s been reduced to. He’s taken his drink of power and soiled his clothes with it. Veronica volleys words the same way she fights, under the guise of her weakness she guts you with innocent eyes. There’s nothing he can throw himself against—no blades or guns or grenades of harsh truth—he’s exhausted all of his options. But he won’t let Simon take the fall for a household of murders, not ones that leave Zayn’s own hands stained red.

“What do you want him for,” because she’s going to get him. Zayn doesn’t need Niall to confirm it, he just knows. She’d do anything to put Simon in a cell by himself, even if it means killing people that Zayn hasn’t the slightest clue which way to link up. Zayn weighs his options and taps his fingers on the tabletop. “If you were to pin something realistic to Simon, what would you want it to be? Don’t bullshit me.”

Veronica’s threats are transparent enough, the card she’s playing is to juke Zayn out of making a deal that doesn’t please her. She licks her lips in overeager anticipation. “The fire, he has to do penance for the fire.”

Zayn’s sigh is loud and long and exhausted. “When will the lot of you fucking let that go?”

“When Simon is punished for killing my family.” Veronica speaks as if she’s suffered the greatest loss of all, like either one of them remember a life with each other. Like they haven’t both blocked out anything before that night because trying to remember ripped open something inside them that would make them even more fucked up than they already are.

Zayn leans forward this time to put this to rest. “You mother died,” he pronounces slowly, so maybe she’ll understand that you cannot lose a memory you never really had. “One member of your family, and you have one left.” Zayn counts those numbers on his fingers, to give Veronica a visual of her losses. “Two, if you prefer to speak technically.”

“Liam wants the same thing. We want justice.”

It softens Zayn’s heart to hear about Liam hurting. And at this moment, still, he’s sure Liam thinks there is a greater connection than coincidence that plays a part in the death of his parents. He lives in a world where they were part of a grand design, when in reality they existed in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Liam needs closure more than either person seated at this table.

“Even if,” Zayn starts with a choke that has his throat closing up. That he’s even asking this, its sending knives deep into his kneecaps. Again, he begins. “Even if Simon did start that fire, statute of limitations will back you into a corner.”

Her nod is that of a victor. “I’ll deal with that bridge when I’m forced to cross it.”

She’s officially tied him up. There isn’t another choice that’s clear to him in this moment. One that Zayn can think of on the spot without repercussions that lands them all in a pile of danger too large for them to claw their way out of.

Zayn keeps his lips sealed—mouth shut—for longer than he thought possible.

“You know what,” she’s rushing him, even as she gathers bulls from her pocket to pay for her complimentary water, Zayn knows she isn’t going anywhere. “I can tell that you won’t make any of that happen. The DA can do with you and _your father_ what they may. I’m tired of playing games with you.”

A puff of breath escapes Zayn in a furious fit of frustration. “Wait a goddamned minute. Fuck.”

Zayn is aware that he’s being played, but he can’t find a big enough loophole to slip Simon through. “You know if he admits to the fire, you aren’t getting anywhere with it.”

The more he tells himself that, the easier it is to see a future in the scorned hands of a widowed and orphaned pair of individuals. It still slimes down his throat, and he’s unable to swallow it without several more platitudes to ease the passage. “But you’ll just pin Simon with something else if he doesn’t admit to your stupid fucking fire, won’t you?”

Veronica ignores him to stare down the barrel of his threats he’s got pointed at her. “I just want to hear him say it, and I want to arrest him after he does it.”

“So all you’re going to let all your hard work go to waste so you can bag a fall guy for a fire that happened two decades ago?”

Veronica pretends not to see the knowledge in Zayn’s eyes. “Haven’t a clue what you’re getting at, but I suggest you make Simon your business.”

Zayn’s jaw ticks, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to move from this spot unless he’s pried from the seat. He’s cemented and each limb feels three times heavier than he remembers it being. _Monster, she’s a monster._ “Like you have?”

“Let it go.”

She’s clasping her hands, and Zayn can see the nonchalance sit in her eyes and her cheeks and in the way she cracks her knuckles without a tick of pain in her brow. “Here’s how I see it. The DA is already going to question Simon with a big killing like this, and long as they don’t have any other reason to hold him—”

Zayn interrupts by raising his hand and it weighs almost as much as he thought it would. “You mean as long as you don’t try and fuck up his life any more than you already have?”

Veronica’s smile would be sweet if it weren’t so sinister. “He ruined mine first, but yes.” Zayn sinks back, because he can’t take any more blows sitting straight in his seat—his shoulders plummet under the weight of Veronica’s sinking words. “If we can intercept him beforehand, the local cops can’t interfere with a federal case.”

It brings him great joy to tell Veronica, “I can’t promise he won’t kill you on sight. You and _your_ father.”

“To hear the truth, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

That line won’t leave him for the rest of the days he chooses to spend on this earth. “I’ll talk to him.”

She nods, like they haven’t just conducted a sort of business that will change someone’s life for the worse. “Make sure you do. Tudor’s lawyers fly back into town some time in the next three days. The DA will want to start building their case before then. Simon’s line-up will be scheduled for tomorrow at two.”

Veronica gathers her things, and Zayn closes his eyes to think. When he opens them, she’s gone. And Zayn’s files are where he left them. It’s sick, really, how no matter the amount of evil that circulates through someone’s veins, that in the end, all anyone wants is the truth.

**/////**

“You’re the one that said you wanted to get out of the house.”

Liam’s back to his stubborn ways, and Zayn’s already grown tired of trying to drag him out of the house for one little thing—not even that big of a deal.

The sun is setting on their window of opportunity, but Zayn stays the course and roams his thumbs over Liam’s ticklish eyelids. Never has Zayn encountered another soul with such a unique spot to induce giggles, but a laughing Liam is a pliable Liam, so he does it again and bends at the waist to meet a bare shoulder with cherished kisses.

Liam’s turned Zayn into a soft soul in some departments, but Zayn can’t deny that he loves it. This, laying and loving and spending unrushed moments with someone he more than tolerates. He spends more time on his healing knees and burdens Liam’s recently unmarked neck. He borders gentle and not, because sometimes Zayn can’t help himself in the proximity of Liam’s skin—naked and pink and waiting for an assault of pleasure that Zayn knows how to give.

“You’re being teasy.” That’s not a word, but Liam says it. Zayn’s very close to opening his mouth against Liam’s neck to chastise him for his error, but Zayn’s got a more vying request to fill—one that doesn’t allow for plans of grammatical criticism. Liam rolls his shoulder in silent conversation to tell Zayn that he wants to be granted space, so he slides away with a fevered nibble to the end of Liam’s earlobe—a delightful departure. “Tickling me isn’t going to soften me up enough to look at dead bodies.”

Zayn takes his recline in stride, moving careful on the mattress and seating his body back against the headboard. He beckons Liam for a follow, and he comes willingly but still with stern and cautious eyes. He slithers back with his returning musk and frowning features.

They’re saddled with a lady that dusts Zayn’s bookshelves, and neither one of them pay her much attention as she enters and does her job with nothing more than a smile and a friendly hello with a wave of wrinkly fingers. There’s detailed security lining the halls, so she’s instructed to keep their door open, which she does respectively, even if it prevents her from cleaning the outside lining of Zayn’s shelves.

They sit in silence as she cleans and hums, but the awkwardness is very present with a mixture of Liam’s broad statements and her privacy clause.

She moves on to Zayn’s bathing area, and they’re left alone again. Zayn laughs into Liam’s skull when the help scurries unnaturally fast at Liam’s earlier mention of dead bodies. “The dead people aren’t even in the safe house anymore.”

Liam isn’t small or light or in a state of need to be cuddled, but he’s crawling impossibly further into Zayn’s arms and it’s like cradling a child. There’s the unmistakable fidget and the slightest whine when Zayn doesn’t filter his attention to the bundle of abstract joy that lies in the circle of his arms.

They manage to paint a picture of what Zayn thinks resembles coupled bliss as their hands find one another in the midst of awkward arm stretches and straining elbow bends. Liam’s guilty of doing that thing where he runs his coarse thumbs over the bump of Zayn’s knuckles. He collapses under a long sigh, Zayn does, because Liam’s careful and coddling actions make him feel smaller than he knows himself to be.

“Still,” Liam adds, waving at Rosita on her way out—Zayn thinks that might be her name—and his head falls backwards onto Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn very considerately makes a place for his chin at the top of Liam’s skull. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you _and_ Simon.”

Zayn keeps his irritation concealed at the delight Liam’s voice retains when he says Simon’s name now—now that Simon and Zayn have sat down to make the hard negotiations that put his father in an uncomfortable position Zayn was trying to help him foil—but he lets Liam carry on, because he doesn’t see him ever being pleasant about any Simon related interruptions.

Liam draws him back with a short sigh and a wiggle of his toes directly in Zayn’s eyesight. “I’ve been in that place plenty of times, I know what it looks like inside and out.” He’s musing and Zayn’s doing a decent job of wiring his jaw shut with broken strings. Liam stretches his hand wide inside Zayn’s, and Zayn wonders if their flesh will rip from pulling. If their heartstrings will do the same. “There’s no reason for me to be there, Zayn.”

Because how much can you really pull something in one direction before it snaps.

Zayn watches in fascination as his hand stretches outside of Liam’s—alongside—until his knuckles are wrinkled and the insides of Liam’s palms are white. He speaks into Liam’s hair to cushion his words, Zayn’s unsure how the sharpness will affect them.

“It’s not a fifty cent tour; they’re putting an actual forensics team in there.” Zayn’s fingers bend backwards until they almost break, but he has to keep speaking, Liam has to be aware of the things going on around them and their bending thumbs and pinkies. “It’s late, but with the serial killer running around shooting people open, they couldn’t untie a team until now. We have a rush-clean up to do.”

But he’s lost Liam to the struggle of their hands, and Zayn squeezes their palms shut to bring him back to Zayn. To earth, where he belongs; where their lives and relationships aren’t being compared to a scale of hands and joints and knuckles. “What does that have to do with me?”

Zayn’s mind barely catches up to his mind, but he makes it in time. He almost makes a wrong turn and brings up his list of suspects to murders that Liam didn’t bother—never bothers—questioning. The mood to hear of Veronica’s innocence, however, evades him, so Zayn’s mouth stays sealed on the subject—and will until Niall calls him with facts that Zayn can harden into concrete bricks to sink his sister into punishable waters.

“We have to erase anything that says me or you were ever there,” Zayn answers Liam’s questions with faltered punctuality, but he gets it.

Liam’s replying faster than Zayn had assumed he would, and his processing time is almost non-existent. “How are you going to swing that by your dad if he’s not supposed to know you ever met with Veronica until the other day?”

Liam breaks through Zayn’s hold, and it doesn’t occur to them that their other joined hands are lying together—solid and never separate—yet they play this game of capture and escape, and Zayn doesn’t like that his brain is telling him it all means.

“I told him,” Zayn answers, letting Liam free his fingers, freshly pink from chaffing brought by the battle of skin against skin. Liam doesn’t believe that Zayn’s uncovered his secrets, and he says so with a lift of one eyebrow that Zayn barely sees in the distant reflection of the mirror facing their bed. “I didn’t tell Simon the truth, just that Veronica approached me with charges. And that I went there before I got jumped by Tudor’s guys to see what kind of bait she was holding.”

Liam’s nods tickle the inside of Zayn’s nose with hairs that stick up in different directions. A tickle that brings forth enough memories to let Liam stretch his hand farther this time, their fingers splayed like the bodies in his flashback—stretched but sated. “You didn’t get jumped by them, she stopped them.”

More defense, Liam moves around and plays for Veronica’s team in a red jersey that makes Zayn close his eyes and count to ten more than twice. “He doesn’t know that,” Zayn points out, because it makes their case easier to state.

Easier than saying that Liam’s been in bed with both Malik siblings. But he’s only used one to feed his intimacy needs, and the other fucked him over in a more proverbial sense. That personal revelation isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of Liam’s condescension voiced in an unpleased sigh that Zayn can feel in his toes if he really concentrates on the proper vibrations.

“So many secrets,” Liam murmurs, but it’s a scream of reprimanding that rings in Zayn’s ears until he repeats himself with a steadier and more agitated voice. “So many freaking secrets, Zayn.”

“Don’t talk shit to me about secrets,” Zayn warns.

It’s all he can feel now, their grip on each other growing stronger to offset the tension of things that they haven’t really said to each other. No more stretching and pulling and yanking, but it’s too late because Zayn thinks they might have already broken.

“Alright,” Liam says, and Zayn already doesn’t like the way his shoulders go rigid. He can feel the fight pushing them away from each other’s point of view. It makes Liam a rock in Zayn’s arms, hard and calloused to the point of spitting his words into the air for Zayn to interpret. “Simon thinks that you’ve been there, so we go make sure there’s no like, scalp on the stairs, and we wipe away prints that the local law enforcement has already gotten. Sounds pointless.”

He can see Liam’s logic, but Zayn has his facts, too.

“They only have partials, Horan checked, and he made them disappear. Which is why we need to go back,” he explains, his grip on Liam’s hand becoming bruising. Nether one of them let go, and Zayn keeps mapping out his logic. “They’re going in for full-suited evidence, now. If they tie me or you to that house, the Department will jump stupid.”

“Because of our relations to Simon?” He’s smug about it, Liam is, when he talks. The man sitting in front of him knows where being Simon’s adopted family lands them in the eyes of the law.

“Because over a dozen people were killed, Liam,” and he has to tell the truth. Zayn can’t keep any more secrets, not from Liam, because they’re smothering him in his sleep and cracking the seal of his lips in the daylight. “And also because of our relation to Simon,” Zayn loosens his grip on Liam’s hand, and replaces the harsh contact with a kiss, and then another one. “But I don’t want to hear about it today, okay? Don’t give me shit about it, not today.”

Kisses and yawns and little nudges of his foot don’t make Liam’s body bristle any less. Zayn can see his anger in the hard hinge of his jaw when he speaks. “When can I give you shit about it, then, hmm?”

Zayn doesn’t make a vocal note of Liam’s steady increase in curse words added to his daily vocabulary, but he does make himself laugh into the soft skin of Liam’s sweating neck. “When I’m in jail or a grave plot, and your points have all been proven. That’s when you can talk shit to me, I guess.”

That’s all it takes for Liam to rip himself away from Zayn, hands and back and shoulders, and he’s hurt when he looks back at Zayn in their reflection. “Don’t even fucking joke like that.”

Zayn tries to right his wrongs, it was dumb of him to say that to someone in such a fragile state, he’s aware. He reaches out to empty space, Liam doesn’t want to be touched or held or placated. Zayn tries to smile. “I was kidding, potty mouth.”

But everything comes out wrong, Zayn speaks too slow and his movements are jerky and uncalculated. Liam’s moving farther and farther away, and that’s a pain that can’t be fixed with any drug besides that of Liam’s hands or lips or curved smile. It’s not pretty, the way pain makes Liam’s face twist into this doubtful and scrunching thing. “This isn’t _a joke,_ Zayn.”

This. This, what is this? Them? Their lives, what they have and haven’t made of them?

“I never said it was,” Zayn answers, because he knows that this is serious, that every day he gets to spend breathing the same air as Liam isn’t something Zayn can take for granted. “You’re overreac—”

The strong point of Liam’s finger says it all— _don’t you fucking dare_ —and Zayn’s closing his mouth and waiting for Liam to speak so he doesn’t step on any more toes than he already has. “I’ll go to your stupid safe house, and I’ll clean up any mess we left behind. But after this I’m _done._ ”

No, _no_ that’s not what Zayn was shooting for. He’s got his gun of intentions aimed in the wrong direction and the target isn’t anywhere to be seen. Liam’s standing now, the ground sure beneath his feet, Zayn supposes. They’ve got an open door and no room to house any of their secrets.

He looks serious enough, red in the face and eyes steel with poison that’s sure to paralyze Zayn should he get the chance to sink in a rabid injection. Zayn strikes first, it’s as simple as that. In an attempt to build walls high enough to keep out Liam’s very obvious rejection, Zayn stands and speaks out of the side of his mouth with a reckless amount of nonchalance that he hopes Liam can’t see right through.

“Done with what,” he asks, and Zayn is cavalier in his delivery, lifting the corner of his mouth and taking a seat at the end of the very large and rumpled and empty bed, doing something as trivial as putting shoes on his feet as he slews words just like Liam did before. “Us? You’re done with us?” Here comes his performing line, he looks at Liam as he talks, and he sees the fire he’s fallen in love with every day, over and over again. “There has to be something here in the first place for it to be over.”

Liam doesn’t open his mouth in a gasp or raise his hand with the intention to strike. He buckles his jaw and shakes his head twice, Zayn counts.

“Cut the drama, Zayn.” Liam speaks like a person that knows Zayn, with tempered control and an anger that you might never know if you don’t encounter Zayn’s harsh ways and quick response to anything he thinks might hurt him. There’s a flicker of sorrow that brings Liam’s hand out to touch, but his anger blows out that candle and he’s retracting into himself so he can yell at Zayn without fear of cradling his skull in shaking fingers. “I’m done with your stupid plans—that’s it. I’ll stay here until Veronica arrests Simon, but after that, I’m going home.”

He’s convincing, and it’s clear to Zayn that Liam speaks with conviction. Conviction that leaves Zayn in the wind, clutching onto any word he can find to spill out of his mouth. “You are—you are home.”

Liam might spit if he were less of a person, but he’s not, yet the words still drip out of his mouth with a hatred that Zayn thought only he himself possessed. “I hate this place,” his arms span and flutter to the space around them, this room and this house and these memories. “And I hate everything in it.”

“Me included,” Zayn asks, but it’s not the hard warrior of a man he’s molded himself into; he speaks as someone scared of losing the biggest piece of their heart.

He sickens himself, but waits for an answer, still.

“I hate who you are when we’re here. When I can’t bring you back out without giving you a hummer, or promising you a business deal—this place is poison, Zayn.”

And that’s not true, it’s not. It’s not, until it is. And Zayn is hiding just like Liam said, behind short words and fumbling laces. He looks down again, and wipes dust that doesn’t exist from the toe of his brogues. “You don’t have to stay.”

He doesn’t see Liam, but that’s never been a problem, because he can feel him. Can feel him moving and hear him breathing, and it’s painful for Zayn not to let his eyes stick to the image of a magnificent man, angry or not, but he can weep later.

“Tell me,” Liam demands, and Zayn thinks he deserves this punishment—forced to speak by a boy who owes Zayn his life—because he taught him to be mean and ruthless, not by orders, but example. “You look at me, Zayn, and tell me that if I walked out of that door, that you wouldn’t make them drag me back, even if it meant I was kicking and screaming.”

Zayn’s ashamed silence speaks for him.

“Exactly.”

Liam wants him, but not the way he lives. Not the way he chooses to die. It doesn’t agree with the thoughts of fairytale that Liam had in mind—that’s how Zayn sees it. “I don’t want to be any other way,” Zayn says to no one, to himself, to Liam, to anyone that will listen. “I don’t know _how_ to be any other way.”

Liam finally speaks with pity and clasped hands as he falls to his knees before Zayn. “I _get that_.”

“I don’t think you do. I _really_ fucking don’t think you do,” Zayn responds quickly, jumping at the fire-touch of Liam’s fingers at his knee. Crawling back is never the option, Zayn doesn’t have the luxury of being wrong or right, he has to be as he’s commanded and expected. He’s the one to stand, now, and Liam sits on the floor, touching the mattress where Zayn once sat with ginger touches, like he can’t believe he let Zayn slip though his hands. “We’re in this whole mess, because of—”

“Because of me,” Liam finishes, and he knows. Zayn is aware that Liam knows, but neither one of them are brave enough to place the blame in Liam’s hands because they think it might burn too much. “I know, you’ve told me. A number of times.”

The sound of guilt is not unrecognizable to Zayn, he’s heard it and spoken it, so the tongue is familiar. He’s not sure why Liam’s voice is laced with it, heavy doses pouring out in the words that he speaks. This is all going according to plan for him.

“You’re getting what you want,” Zayn makes the accusation with a roaring voice and no compassion for anything Liam might feel when he says his piece. “I don’t know why you want to wash your hands now.” Zayn can’t see himself, but he feels his face move, contort into something mean and nasty. “Don’t feel guilty _now,_ Liam.”

“I do,” Liam taunts loftily, one shoulder lifting with a sneer to match. “Because Simon will never know—no one will ever know—that _I’m_ the one who brought him to justice.”

It’s maybe the most evil thing Zayn’s ever heard him say, the most malicious, definitely. Zayn’s palms sweat white and hold onto the thigh of his trousers where he forms a grip to himself because Liam is too far gone to hold on to. Zayn’s teeth grit unnaturally, and his head drifts from left to right in disbelief. “That’s what’s keeping you breathing, them not knowing.”

And if they’re not careful, the whole left wing of the house will hear, and where will they be then.

Zayn makes it very clear that he’s not done talking with a jesting laugh to Liam’s opening and closing mouth. “ _I’m_ keeping you breathing, and you don’t seem to give a shit, Liam.”

But Liam’s still stuck on stupid, still floating around with a dream in his pocket, no intention of coming down. “I want to be there,” and when he speaks, Zayn can’t find Liam in his eyes, he’s somewhere far away where Zayn can’t touch. “I want to hear him—”

“Hear him say it?” That’s exactly what Veronica said, almost verbatim. Zayn directs his body to stand, relying on the mechanics of his muscles to help him do what he’s not sure he’d be able to accomplish on his own. He’s weak in the knees, with hurt and loss and disappointment. Liam’s a breath taller than him, but when Zayn stands with high shoulders and an ever higher chin, Liam doesn’t look very big at all. “That’s all you all want,” Zayn inquires with firm persistence, “is to see hear Simon say he killed your stupid families?”

Liam’s wounded but Zayn is furious, so he carries on with a laugh to start off his verbal bash of pleasant storybook endings they’ve spun in their heads. “What makes you think he won’t play all of you? Lie,” he suggests, because it’s not out of the question for Simon to do so, yet Liam’s eyes flash with recognition as if it’s the first time this has crossed his mind. “Say he did it because he would rather give you peace of mind than make you unhappy for another twenty years?”

Left and right, one direction and then the next, Liam’s head swings to tell Zayn no. _No,_ that Simon would not do that. No, that Simon doesn’t know that Liam will always blame him, even if he’s never had the balls to come out and say it to his face. No, that Simon would be that generous. No, that Simon would _let_ Liam get away with being a snitch, and this town—Simon’s men—would be the ones to cut him open.

It’s all a distant possibility, so all Liam can say is, “no.”

“Contrary to the beliefs that you have, Liam, Simon loves the _both_ of us.” Liam looks lost, floating and falling, but Zayn’s made his launch of flight, and he can’t be there to catch Liam at this second. So he does them both a favor and makes Liam sink even faster. He’s at his ear, and it’s dirty the way Zayn escapes being caught in Liam’s seeking palms. “He loves us, even if one of us doesn’t fucking deserve it.”

Because it’s easier to just drown Liam than wait him to hit the water on his own.

“I hate you,” chokes from Liam’s throat, bubbles over in big bloody clots while Zayn washes his red hands and Liam’s fingers hold onto his gut like Zayn’s held onto his knee. “I _hate_ you, Zayn.”

“No you don’t.”

This house, it’s teeming, with security and a cleaning detail. They’re fully staffed, have been for the last few days, even more so now that Simon is prepping for lines of inquiry. Apparently there is not statute of limitations on murder, or manslaughter. Zayn hasn’t sat down to think about what it means that Simon may have lit the one match that set Zayn’s world on fire, but he keeps his opinions on a backburner, and stays true to his commitments.

Right now, that involves keeping Liam as safe as possible, he doesn’t know what he was thinking taking him along to a crime scene. When he storms past Liam to gander outside their bedroom door, it’s not hard to find a large and obedient watchman to call over from his post at the end of the hall.

“You,” Zayn calls, pointing with his finger and curling it towards himself. “Come here.”

“Yes sir,” he responds, keeping his eyes forward, his body straight and ridged as he walks past the guest bathing areas and Perrie’s assigned room and finally to Zayn’s doorjamb. “How can I help you?”

The man—Zayn’s terrible with names—only flinches the slightest when Zayn reaches and retrieves the gun at the guard’s waist. Zayn can respect that, he’d kill a man for doing the same. Once he’s checked the magazine for a round of bullets, he’s smiling politely and settling the kind man’s gun back in his hip holster and commanding his attention inside the room, where Liam stands with a full pout and astoundingly confused eyes.

“This man,” he suggests to Liam, who gets more confused the longer Zayn stands there with his accusing fingers in the air. “He doesn’t leave this room, do you understand?”

“You fucking dick,” and the beast in Liam really does come out. He’s charging over in a less than menacing fashion, donned only in a pair of boxer shorts and a noticeably red temper.

They don’t have nametags, so Zayn can’t assign this man a name, but he does award him points for stepping in the doorway as Liam approaches, and thank fuck Zayn is on the other side, because Liam’s hitting this guy pretty fucking hard, but he doesn’t even move.

_There will always be someone bigger and stronger, Li. You gotta know that._

Zayn fixes the watch on his wrist to check the time. He’ll have to pick something up to wear on the way, seeing as he’s not going back into his room with a death wish lined in his pockets. Zayn clears his throat over Liam’s caterwauling to garner the attention of the boulder in the doorway. “I have business to attend to, and he’s a danger to himself.”

“Yes sir.”

He likes this already, Zayn’s got to admit.

“You’re to stay in this room,” Zayn directs, and the smile that graces his face only succeeds in making Liam fume even more from the other side of their muscled barrier. He’s stopped hitting, sunken back with his fists at his sides. Zayn stands with his hands in his pockets, and he doesn’t think Liam will forgive him for a long time. “The bathroom doesn’t have windows, but I want the door open. Other than that, close this door to the hallway and don’t let him shoot you with the gun that’s under my bed, or the one hidden in my armoire.”

“Got it, sir.”

If only Liam followed orders as easily.

“You can’t just fucking _lock me in a room,_ Zayn.”

“You’re the one that said I could.” Zayn makes a point in the air, but he’s not enjoying this. He’d love nothing more than to share his life and his experiences with Liam, but he’s not there yet. So he paints his face with joy that will wash off once he reaches the end of the hallway, and he lets Liam hate him just enough to keep him in one place.

“Any other notes, Mr. Malik?”

“Yeah,” he nods, and Zayn makes sure that Liam sees his eyes—sees the truth there, the absolute sincerity. “If he tries to leave, shoot him.”

He’s safer in this room with a hard heart than he will ever be out here with Zayn, Simon, Veronica, and Yaser.

They’re the real evil.

**/////**

The neighborhood is just as quiet as Zayn remembers it being. Nice homes with quiet residents, and now all of them are shut tight and safe in their homes to never come out to bask in the shadows that have seen blood and bullets and fallen men of the badge. They won’t come out after the sun comes down, not anymore—Zayn’s counting on it.

Zayn checks the time at the end of his wrist before unlatching his watch and leaving it behind in the seat to accompany his phone. His phone. He’s got a voicemail full of angry messages from Liam claiming Zayn to be ridiculous, and also a monster, if he heard correctly. Zayn stopped listening after the fourth message.

He’s not as punctual as he’d wish to be, the proper clothing was required, and Zayn doesn’t like picking up things from the rack. Zayn hadn’t intended to spend the last waxing hours of the sun in a tailor’s dressing room, but one suit turned into two, and he’d bargained Louis another twenty minutes with a presentable watch and pleated pants.

“We’re supposed to park two blocks, or one block away, boss?”

Zayn’s busied himself with bending over to tie his shoe in the floorboard—new, because they’re tailored to go with the sport suit he’s acquired—but Zayn looks over Louis’ seat from the back to help him see out of the windshield. He points his finger forward, and Louis’ face lights with soft recognition from the corner of Zayn’s eye.

“There’re up ahead,” Zayn says, leaning back into his seat to finish lacing his shoes. He has extra wiggle room, but they look nice, and they’ll do for a good distraction. “We aren’t the last ones here, are we?”

“I’m afraid we are, sir.”

Zayn sigh with obvious displeasure, because there’s nothing worse than arriving after Andrew La Fazia, yet he’s managed it on the eve of the most important day he and his father will face together. “Dammit, okay.”

“Why’d you want to bring Andrew along?” Louis talks as he parks, most of his face turned away from Zayn to check his mirrors, but he does so silently and with the most efficiency—they don’t want to alert anyone to their presence by running over trashcans and mailboxes.

They’re the block behind the safe house, the three of them—Zayn, Andrew, and Simon—parked behind different cruisers and minivans, but Zayn can see the congregation of men standing outside his father’s vehicle two cars away near the street. Zayn sees Andrew, it’s easy to make out the awkward outline of his shoulders and the jittery movements of his legs and feet even from here.

It’s all too leisurely to smile as Zayn unbuckles himself and clings to the back of Louis’ headrest to speak. “I needed a Patsy to take the fall is anything goes wrong.” Zayn scratches at his elbow, and he and Louis both watch Andrew move back and forth with nerves—it’s almost fucking stupid to bring him along. “Greg’s arranged us two fifteen minute breaks, and then we’ve got to be out of there. Plus I heard Andrew’s really good at scene clean up.”

Louis startles in disbelief, and Zayn can’t fault him for that, he’s skeptical himself. “And you believe that?”

“I believe he’s got Luminol and a kick ass black light, so I’m gonna chance it.”

Satisfied, Louis unlocks their car doors, and Zayn’s stepping out right behind his chauffer. He wiggles in his pants, makes sure he can move as well as he did in the store. Louis rolls his eyes, Zayn can fucking hear it, the bastard, but he’s being precautious. Louis watches Zayn strip of his over shirt and makes his criticisms at the same time.

“If any of you run, they’re going to catch you all. I don’t see Simon pulling off a sprint.” Louis points to the attire Zayn’s chosen for the night—a black and respectable cotton suit that provided him a cover in the night, and would still command more respect than a pair of sweat pants and joggers. Louis scoffs, and Zayn’s too busy transferring his hip piece to the space towards the back of his pants to flip him off. “And I don’t think Gucci 2014 makes running gear, lad. Quite sure your shoes are going to slow you down, too. Not to mention leave proper expensive shoe prints behind.”

“That’s why I bought them two sizes too big. In a store I trust. _With cash._ ” Zayn really would rather not be having this conversation, but the first patrolman doesn’t go on his break for at least another six minutes. Zayn waves a hand in his father’s direction when they hurry him along with shouted whispers. He bends to tuck the ends of his shoelaces inside his shoe, he doesn’t want shoelace fibers landing him in prison. “And this isn’t even Gucci, fucking asshole.”

Louis holds up sincere and surrendering hands, walking behind Zayn and locking their doors with a loud fucking beep that he only apologizes for in a wince. Zayn observes Louis’ shadow to determine the added weight to his ankle as the knife from a month ago, though he also has a more familiar weight at his back, and also in the side of his jacket, but it’s none of Zayn’s fucking business how his detail chooses to protect himself.

“If we do have to get away,” Zayn speaks, ultimately low as they get closer to Simon and Andrew, “I want Andrew capped. Knees and cheek.”

Zayn can’t say he hasn’t been waiting to give that order since both La Fazia cousins got the go ahead to sell from Simon, none other. Louis nods, stopping to add time to their conversation. “Can’t talk, can’t walk—nice. Clever, too. I have to ask, is that an order?”

He can’t stop his brow from crinkling at the thought of his suggestions being anything other than orders, but he obliges. Nodding, Zayn confirms. “Yes.”

Starting to walk, Louis stops Zayn again with a glint in the dark that makes him shift on the balls of his feet. “You’ve been making a lot of shooting bargains today, boss.”

He groans and pushes his way past Louis to make the last twenty steps to the makeshift crew standing aside his father’s vehicle. “Talking to Liam, Lou?”

The courtesy to sound caught doesn’t linger in any of Louis’ replying words. “He’s right worried about you.”

“We keep discussing this, Louis, and you’re the one he’s going to be worried about.”

All it takes is a curt nod to end their conversation, and they’re approaching a shaky Andrew and a serious Simon. “Hint taken.”

“Glad to hear it.” Zayn makes way to hug his father, and he ignores the outstretched hand of a man he’ll never learn to like. “We ready gentleman?”

And he doesn’t wait for a ring of answers to grace his ears before he’s making his trek to the safe house. This night can’t be over fast enough.

**/////**

None of them speak on the quick trip between concrete alleys and picket fences. It’s late enough for the families of the street to be sleeping. Zayn doesn’t plan to arouse them from their resting quarters by formulating small talk with Andrew La Fazia on their walk over.

So none of them speak, and Zayn’s grouped with his father while Andrew falls back to stay in step with Louis and his stuttered walk.

“Liam decided not to come,” Simon asks when Zayn is busy attempting to pry the back fence open from the outside. Zayn can’t say he doesn’t think about cutting the lock, but with a lack of tools and no desire to leave behind traces of tampering, he withstands the splinter in his new sleeve and leans over to unlatch it.

Simon’s still waiting for an answer, and Zayn makes sure this is the right gate—yeah, there’s crime scene tape on the back door—but Zayn gives him one he won’t be satisfied with. “Liam decided to piss me off, so he’s at home with Bart.”

Zayn learned his name on the way out, from Perrie, of all the people he could run into, but that’s not anything he wants to discuss at the moment.

“Is Lisa there, too? Maybe Homer?” Andrew was blessed with a lack of comedic genius—any genius—and a knack for eavesdropping. Three pairs of eyes are his to decipher, and when Louis snickers, Zayn hopes that Andrew understands the dissimilarity of being laughed with, and being laughed at. “You get it? Bart, Lisa, Homer…”

“I’m aware of all the Simpson’s characters, Andrew.” Zayn makes his aggravation very clear, and no matter how long Louis sighs at him for his quick temper, Zayn’s entitled to snappy statements right now. They’re standing outside of a crime scene with their dicks in their hands because Andrew feels the need to disrupt Zayn’s private business with novelty jokes. “Do you have what I asked you to bring?”

But Zayn cares about business, and they’re three minutes behind schedule because of this lock, so he’d really like to get on with this. He remains cordial, no matter how urgent the need is to choke Andrew until the oxygen is no longer used as a waste of materials to keep his brain alive.

“The gloves and the bags?”

Zayn rubs at the bridge of his nose, it’s his escape, and he really hopes it short circuits the headache forming at the front of his brain. “Yes, Andrew. Did you bring the gloves and the evidence bags? And the Luminol?”

“I even brought some scopes,” he responds, overly eager in the night, and Louis has to stamp out the excitement in Andrew’s tapping feet with the end of his shoe. Snapped away from distractions, Andrew counts on the tips of his fingers, and Zayn has to stop himself from shooting him right where they stand. “They’re black lights, we use them to scope out fake bills.”

Fake bills they get from a drug business that Zayn doesn’t approve of. He can fucking hear his father cringe at his side, but Zayn doesn’t have time to renounce old grudges. “Would you like to give them to me, or you wanna stand here and recount your inventory all night?”

“Oh, _oh!_ Sure.”

Even in the dark, he doesn’t doubt Louis was a witness to Zayn rolling his eyes. Andrew clanks around in the large and loud duffel at his side, and Zayn keeps his eyes forward. He won’t dare look to the left to see Louis’ judgmental stare. His father makes his displeasure with Zayn’s callousness known in a series of coughs that Zayn really hopes doesn’t fucking attract any unwanted attention.

Andrew hands out plastic gloves, and they use a brand of hand sanitizer found in the city’s medical labs. Ski caps furnish dandruff, so Zayn is fitted with an inhumane swim cap that’s going to put the most unattractive of wrinkles in his goddamn forehead. Simons’ already left to check for a basement and possible perimeter tapes, and Louis has already taken his place on watch duty, which leaves Andrew with his hands in Zayn’s hair, fitting his cap again, because apparently Zayn is a fucking moron who can’t put a cap on correctly.

“Sorry if I pull your hair, I just don’t want you to leave behind follicles on our trip to erase them.” He’s nice about tucking tufts of hair in certain places, this way and that, and Zayn might feel bad, just a little. It’s certainly the response to unwarranted kindness that Liam would stand proud of.

But Zayn isn’t burdened with a good soul or a sorry conscience. “I don’t mind. Can grow it back, I guess.”

It’s not as nice as he hoped for the second he opened his mouth, but it makes Andrew draw up his lips in a stupid smile, so Zayn has done his day’s worth of charity.

Once he’s finished mauling the hairs on top of Zayn’s head, and situating his own gloves and cap, they walk inside the backyard, finally, and when they get to the back door, Simon’s left it open for them, so all they have to do is step over the line of tape and not snag any of their clothes on any fucking thing.

Zayn had known it was bad, but not this. He had never pictured this. The blood isn’t spattered enough to tiptoe around, it all lies in big, half-cleaned pools. Some of the red—all he sees is red, even in the dark—is pink, now, tinted white and vanished with bleach, no doubt a mistake a rookie was caught in the middle of.

Everything else, it’s sticky. Zayn doesn’t touch it to find out, but he knows what murder looks like. He knows what’s left behind when someone pours from one hole in their body until their insides are on the outside and their souls are drifting in the direction of the ceiling.

Zayn can see from the patterns the glass leaves in the hardwood and then the carpet, that these people were subjected to passing guns, and then ravaged again from up close by savages in the windows sometime in the dark until Tudor was sure another living thing didn’t exist within these four walls. The blood on the floor and the ceiling, and the sludge of internal make-up lining the walls, it’s on Zayn’s hands.

He swallows his guilt and lets it sit in his stomach with the rest of the horrible things he’s ever had the chance to feel, and Zayn walks on. It takes one thought—just the one—and he’s alright to move one foot in front of the other.

This would have been him, and Liam, and Simon.

And suddenly the guilt doesn’t taste so bad going down.

Most of the shock wears off when he makes it to the front of the house. Andrew is walking alongside him, patiently waiting for orders, and Zayn thinks that his silence during Zayn’s process is the best thing to occur in the night. “Where do you want me to look, boss?”

_Where, where was he when he was here?_

“The stairs.” All Zayn does is point, and Andrew is moving swiftly through pungent smells and thick coats of red— _it’s all red_ —painted carpets and kneeling at the foot of the stairs, awaiting further prompting. “Use the Luminol to scope out any blood, then bleach it. Use the Luminol again, and then the bleach it away. Use the black light to sniff out any remaining Luminol and then come find me. Just the bottom flight.”

Zayn kneels beside him after he’s already gotten busy, and searches his surprisingly handy bag for an actual flashlight. He loots long enough to find one, and then he’s immediately shining it around to light his way to his escape room. He’ll go over Andrew’s work later, should the time frame allow, but right now his feet are carrying him farther away from the red droplets and closer to the bright red beacon flashing in his mind’s eye.

It’s all oddly strange, walking back through the wreckage like he’s never been here. Zayn is very watchful of where he makes his rather expensive steps. The absence of any noise sends more shivers down the knobs of his spine than obscene racquet ever could. He has to remind himself not to touch the door when he gets to it, but when Zayn thinks about repeatedly smashing Veronica’s face into splinters and wood and pain, his hand drifts up accordingly to graze before he retreats quickly and takes a look inside.

He nearly coins it as impossible, looking inside, but he fights off several twitches that his neck makes in the other direction and busts the barrier of repressed memories to stand inside that room just one more time. But the phantom flashes of blonde hair and black hair and long and scared faces don’t stray Zayn from the obvious difference in cleanup that this room has been subjected to in correlation to the rest of the house.

Zayn wants to turn the overhead on, but he knows that’s the number one rule. You don’t do anything to draw attention, such as flashing handhelds directly into the windows, or turning on the fucking overhead.

It could be construed for an axe swing—that’s what the hole in the door looks like now, because the escaped bullet doesn’t sit in the wall across the hall like is should—it’s blank and untelling—and there isn’t a trace of any disturbance in the room Zayn took one life, and almost another. As compared to the accidental bleach washes and left behind corpse filling left everywhere outside this room, everything is wiped clean.

White, even in the dark it all flashes white. And blonde. Blonde like the girl Zayn left lying there with broken dreams and an open skull. And no. No, Zayn isn’t wired or programmed to feel remorse or guilt for this long. He’s accustomed to washing it down with a shot of bourbon and an even stronger dose of reality until it burns away in his stomach. It’s not supposed to trickle into places of Zayn’s body and make his heart hurt.

Because if Zayn looks at the pile of nothingness—the white wash of the wall and the cleansed pine floor—and he allows the pity to sink in, he’ll have to do the same for each soul he’s let float away on account of his robotically inclined orders.

_Kill or get killed. Kill to protect. Kill to survive._

White, it’s all white now. Washed away; they’re all gone. It’s a swirl of eggshell and soft yellow and grey, and Zayn can’t see any of it. His scalp itches, and his back hurts. _Rip, rip, rip_ —Zayn feels bullets tear through him, but when he looks down its all white. Zayn’s not bleeding red, isn’t bleeding at all, but he can feel a knife now—it stabs just before then the shooting begins again.

His eyes— _fuck, fuck_ —they burn, it all burns.

Zayn’s eyes are warm and wet, but he can’t feel the tears when he touches his face. It’s like slick plastic—unaffected and unblemished with burden—and Zayn’s sinking.

Zayn wants to feel the tears from his eyes; he imagines they’re red and disgusting—savage like. The blood needs to be on his hands, it all has to match. But Zayn’s falling and he’s hitting a wall—one that’s white and pristine until Zayn slides down, leaving a black mark in his wake. That’s what Zayn imagines is happening, because that’s what he does—tarnish perfectly good things. Zayn’s going to ruin it; he’s going to ruin the white walls with his black heart.

And his eyes still fucking burn.

But he can feel it now, the blood pouring from his sockets, and he deserves that. Zayn looks down, though, wants to see it run into the creases of his palm and it’s white. There’s no color.

No color. _None._

“This looks like—well, the Bureau is _not_ responsible for the clean up inside here, huh?”

Zayn’s bones can almost be accounted present on the outside of his skin.  He has to cough and tamper the urge to beat air back into his chest—because it’s all gone, and he’s breathing on fumes—but Zayn’s scared of ripping a button or snagging a string in an angry fight for breath. The thought of sitting inside a jail cell— _a prison cell_ —is only worse when he thinks about sitting there for a mistake made in being hastily reckless.

“Did you—shit,” Zayn has to stop and touch his knees, because now he’s upright, and that’s weird. It’s strange because Zayn could have sworn he was on the ground; he felt himself fall from grace and didn’t account for a reprise. But Zayn coughs again to spill words into his throat, and he’s standing upright again. “Did you clean the stairs like I asked you?”

“Yeah, mate.” His eyes are lidded from time to time, Andrew’s, but Zayn leaves the chemical scent of bleach accountable for that. Zayn’s head spins and Andrew is looking in the hallways, also at the only window near the top of the room for lights. He’s glad to have a break. “You’ve been in here for ages. Simon swept the basement, and I cleaned up the stairs. Plus, I helped him haul up all the stuff he found.”

Zayn has no judgment of time, he _just got here._ He just got in here a second ago—it was just a second. “How long have I been in here?”

“Longer than we have time for, it’s been fifteen minutes, we’ve burned through half a break.” Zayn can respect his honesty. He wipes at his eyes, not sure how moisture got on the bridge of his nose and rims of his eyes. “Whoa, did you sit in something? And why are your—Zayn you took your gloves off. Shit.” Andrew’s moving across the room, and Zayn can barely follow him with tried eyes; what’s wrong? “What happened?”

What’s happening?

_What is happening?_

Zayn can’t answer that because he doesn’t know. He can see the imprint of his back when he turns to look, it sits in the residue of fresh paint—that must be how they got rid of the blood, repainting. When he blinks, it’s red, and Zayn can see what _should_ have been sticking to the wall with the paste of dried and matted brains. But it’s clear again when he closes and opens his eyes once more, not reappearing no matter how many times he tries to blink it into existence.

“I don’t.” Words don’t taste right in Zayn’s mouth; he speaks around balls of cotton until his replies are dripping out. “I don’t know—would you.” _Catch your breath, get a hold of yourself, Zayn. Get up, get up_. “I need you to—”

Shit, shit. This can’t be happening. Zayn points to the window— _snap out of it_ —and meticulously slides his gloves back over each hand. Andrew is sincere, and Zayn doesn’t deserve that, he shouldn’t be handed kindness, because Zayn’ll throw it out. That it doesn’t stop Andrew from prompting Zayn with soft, waving hands. “What do you need me to do, boss?”

“The window. You get the window, and give me a bacteria eater for the wall.”

He’s back on track, and Zayn wants to hurl at his lack of thanks in regard to Andrew’s courtesy. He’s handed a bottle with pretense. “This is just a disinfectant.”

Zayn takes it anyway, and sprays the nozzle shoddily to mimic the haphazard state of cleanliness throughout the rest of the house. He keeps spraying, faster and faster. Zayn does the entire wall from top to bottom, and lets the disinfectant run down the wall.

Andrew has to climb atop the table like Zayn had all those nights ago. Zayn makes a note to remind Andrew to clean the table top of foot and shoeprints when he’s done.

“It’s pretty clean up here. I can smell a new seal, so the glass is new.” They fixed the window _and_ the gunshot wall? And the hole in the door looks accidental, not murderous. Zayn doesn’t understand why Veronica and her lackies—the ones who obviously cleaned in here—would takes steps to erase Zayn’s existence. But Andrew is still talking, and Zayn can’t afford to miss any major details. “If it was broken before, you might want to check for glass on the outside. With the room being as clean as it is, I doubt the sweepers even looked for anything suspicious on the perimeter.”

Zayn does his personally assigned cleansing with a thick paper towel. The harsh smell lingering in Zayn’s nostrils has nothing to do with the alcohol in the solution he’s spraying. “That doesn’t seem odd to you? These are their own guys, and it’s taking them two weeks to get a tactical team out here?”

The best thing for Zayn right now, is to think out loud.

Zayn can’t see anything but Andrew’s shadow on the wall, and the white slime of disinfectant and dust dripping into his towel. “I though that maybe they wanted to get the best of the best, you know?” Andrew does have a point, so Zayn doesn’t immediately stop listening to him speak. “But the longer I look at it, boss, the less this looks like an actual safe house at all.”

Zayn stands and flashes the light to make sure nothing draws attention to the spot he might have left pieces of himself behind in, and he thinks. Zayn thinks hard about what Andrew is suggesting. He holds out a gloved hand to make an easier transition for Andrew from the table to the floor. He points to the dirt on the table and gives Andrew his cleaner.

“What’s a safe house supposed to look like?” Zayn’s never been inside one, only on the outside to extract—besides this one, of course. “They keep it simple and quaint, right? Don’t want to attract too much attention. And apparently they clean up their own messes.”

Andrew looks ridiculous shaking his head with the top half of it sucked into a swim cap. “Feds don’t sweep like this, and they don’t live in a house with empty rooms. They have a cover, they’re not gonna risk blowing it by being cheap on furniture.”

It doesn’t stick. “They had a couch in the living room, and some things in the foyer. Rugs, I know they had rugs. I’ve seen all that shit.”

“Things that probably came with the house,” and the look of a conspiracy is not lost on him. Zayn lets all of that sink in and take its toll, but there’s no other explanation. “This is a mercenary house, I’m telling you.”

Other than that one, apparently. Zayn’s seen the people inside this house, though. “Mercenaries aren’t exactly white collar, Andrew.”

“Niall said there was an arsenal, Simon had me take a case or two before the weapons unit could seize it.” Andrew lays his explanations out with wide hands and even wider eyes. “It’s not standard issue, none of it. Shells look like they were trying to use ‘em as universals, but they back a bigger punch, I bet. And the briefcases too. Empty, but I hired this pretty little blonde merc years ago, and I know she had one like it—”

Zayn’s done entertaining the ideas of fools, he tried. “I’ve been here, I’ve seen the people that I got killed, and they were buttoned up federal agents.”

He doesn’t have the time for speculations, especially not ones entertained by Andrew La Fazia. He’s not angry, just done with this situation. Zayn moves quickly from this cage of walls with Andrew moving along his heels, tools piled back in his bag with soiled napkins and empty cases of solutions and chemicals.

“Get the glass, if there is any from outside the side window.” _Suitcases._ Zayn remembers Andrew saying something about suitcases. “And those cases Simon had you bring up, where are they?”

“You dad had me put them in his car.”

The only significance suitcases have are from the night Liam got jumped. “Are they marked, did you look them over yourself?”

“They have initials on the handles, if that’s what you mean.”

“LP?” Please, Zayn wants them to be Liam’s, they need to be Liam’s. If he can pin his attack on Veronica, he should have enough reason to sever the tie Liam has to Zayn’s sister. “Were they marked with LP?”

“No,” _fuck._ “VM.”

Of course he can’t catch a fucking break.

“Then burn them, take them from Simon and burn them.” They make a meticulous trail until they’re outside, and Zayn’s closing the door behind Andrew and taking Simon’s lock-pick out of the keyhole. Louis is still on watch when he gets outside, but Simon’s retuned to the car. He stops Andrew before they make it out. “I mean it, Andrew. I want all of the shit you got from the house burned, tonight.”

“You got it boss, but I think Simon already left to take the Ammo to the North side.”

Shit. “Then catch up with him, and do what I asked. This is my raid. And then you tell him I’ll meet him at the house.” Zayn dreads going home, knows that it’s going to be hell every moment he’s in the same proximity of Liam’s outrage. “I’ve got a missus to see.”

“An angry one?”

Zayn sighs, because angry is taking Liam’s temper lightly. “You could say that.”

**/////**

“I can’t even believe you.”

Zayn crosses his legs and turns to the next page of his health magazine. Articles cataloging fruits and body toxins are a lot less harmful than the man flailing around the room in front of Zayn. He chews on the inside of his lip and continues to read on.

He’s been home for forty-three minutes, and Liam has been testing out the range of his vocals for all forty-three of those minutes.

“I had to watch _Perrie_ walk out of here, and then _the maid_ , and _the dress help_.” Liam’s walking to and fro, and Zayn notices that at least he smells decent, so he must have showered. He wonders how that worked out with Bart here. “He wouldn’t even let Nan up here to ask me about Sunday dinner.”

Zayn is quick to flag Liam’s play with a curt roll of his eyes. “When is the last time you even came to Sunday dinner?” Liam’s silence speaks copious volumes, and Zayn turns to the next page after a confirmed nod. “It was a means to escape. Leave it to Bonnie to come bail you out.” Zayn has to refold his legs to avoid cramping and tense muscles. “And this is all completely in my character description; I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

Liam’s almost reckless in the way he swings his hands around. His face is red. Red, just—red. Zayn almost considers putting down his book and bringing down the façade to face Liam’s long brood and justifiable pout.

Though, that would involve facing Liam’s _wrath_ atop the real problems they have here, so Zayn stays safe and seated on his bed, and he turns another page.

“I thought you were _changing_ , Zayn.” Liam sounds wounded, but he’s safe. Zayn keeps him out of harm’s way, so his mental integrity means nothing, because he’s not wounded on the outside. There’s not pierced skin or burned flesh, so Zayn doesn’t resonate with the drawn out syllables of hurt lacing Liam’s voice. “You locked me in your room.”

“ _Our_ room,” Zayn corrects, not giving him the pleasure of looking up from where Zayn’s started to burn holes into a page he never intended on reading.

“I have to look at _Perrie’s sheets_ , and _Perrie’s perfume_ ,” Liam’s shouting, and Zayn hasn’t got the time to entertain this argument yet again. He wonders if any of the things Veronica enlightened Liam to had anything to do with the ability to not let any fucking thing go. “ _Perrie’s stupid, colored hair_ , I have to look at all of it. This is _your_ room that you’re sharing with me.”

Zayn isn’t sure what he’s supposed to cut in with. He won’t lie and say that didn’t hurt, because Liam knows how to spin knives in Zayn’s chest better than anyone. Zayn can’t— _won’t_ —look up to watch Liam stab him again and again. “That’s not the point, though. It’s not. I could care less about whose room this is; it’s the fact that you _locked me_ in here.”

Zayn’s petulant when he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t need that pointed out by the now calm features of Liam’s striking face. “You were going to stay here anyway.”

That’s all Zayn has in lieu of defense. He’s up from the bed to remove his clothes, because the only thing that’s appealing to him at the moment is sleep. Zayn sits again, avoiding the body of rage that consumes Liam and his red, smooth skin.

“That’s supposed to be _my choice_.”

Zayn knows he acted brash. He sees his reflection from across the room, watches his mirror image speak more words in his defense while Liam holds a branded knife to Zayn’s heart with hurt eyes. “When I let you have your own choices, Liam, people get hurt.”

Liam’s breathing alerts Zayn to the fuming he knew would take place, and he speaks to Zayn in heavy pants and stuttered steps around their room—it’s fucking _theirs_ —with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh as he opens and closes his fists, again and again and again. “You don’t _let_ me do anything, Zayn. You’re not my parent. I don’t have parents, remember? Simon _burned them alive_.”

There isn’t a crevice inside Zayn’s body that holds the energy to do this. His shoulders sag, and he toes off both of his shoes, standing and sitting to remove his clothing, and letting Liam’s words sink into the surface of his skin before Zayn burns them, discarding it with his trousers at his feet, shucking his over coat and shirts next.

When he sits back down, several moments have passed and Liam doesn’t have to move his chest miles high to breathe, but there’s still accurately placed confusion in his eyes when Zayn takes a look. “Are we done exchanging insults, yet? Because this isn’t how I wanted to spend the rest of my night, Liam.”

Zayn sits in boxers to match Liam’s state of undress, and he massages the phantom feel of shackles from his wrist as he speaks to the void of space behind Liam’s head. “I just told my murderous, terrible father that he has to make a deal with my frigid little sister because I made a fucking mistake that would land him in prison if he didn’t cooperate.”

The band keeping them apart snaps, and Liam’s rushing to make it to Zayn’s side, but his touch hurts. It burns when he sits at Zayn’s feet and lets his fingers touch Zayn’s thighs and calves and knees. “Zayn.”

“Don’t,” he chokes. He’s shaking his head, but Zayn can’t shake his body. He can’t shake Liam from his bones, because even when he retracts, Zayn still can’t extinguish the pain. “Don’t say you’re sorry, because it’ll be bullshit, and I’ll know it.”

Liam kisses his knee, and Zayn thinks about dying. He thinks it would suit him better than sitting here and letting Liam char his flesh with each press of his lips. And then he’s pulling Zayn’s hands to his face and curing his shakes with a peck to each knuckle. That doesn’t hurt as much, but it’s still painful.

Zayn’s the gasoline, the poison. But Liam has always been the match.

There should be scars on Zayn’s hands—Liam’s too. And there were, but now they’ve vanished and left each of them broken in ways that neither of them knew how to fix.

“That’s not what I was planning on saying.” Liam’s laughs open and magically at Zayn’s shocked and flustered expression. He rests his chin on Zayn’s burning kneecap, and he never lets Zayn’s hands leave his own. “I was going to say that I’m sorry—”

“I just fucking said that.”

“Listen, would you?” He smoothes over imaginary lines in the center of Zayn’s open palm, but he only makes it harder not to give in to the flames. Zayn’s trying very hard to settle with the pain, but he wants to blend it with the pleasure he feels being this close to Liam. The lines blur, but Zayn keeps trying to define them for himself. “I’m not sorry Simon’s paying for a crime he should have paid for a long time ago.”

Zayn struggles to be free from the hold Liam has on him. “I’m not in the mood, Liam.”

He’s yanked in and assaulted with dry, quick kisses to the back of his hands. “But I am sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m even more sorry that you had to go through that alone.”

Zayn wasn’t alone, Simon was present. He wasn’t alone when his father gave him long pats on the back and kisses to both cheeks and told him that he was proud to call Zayn his son. He wasn’t alone when he raided the safe house, and he wasn’t alone when Simon took off before saying goodbye.

But it sure felt like it.

“I’m not alone, I’ve got you.” That’s how he makes it up to Liam, just by saying that. The gesture alone leaves Liam open long enough to let Zayn sneak back into his good graces with a cheesy smile and a thick coat of paint to hide his intentions.

Zayn rubs the dumbly attractive scruff on the edges of Liam’s cheeks, and he thinks it might be hurting him too, to have Zayn this close, if his wince is anything to go by. Liam talks though whatever agony he might feel. “Is you being cheesy supposed to make me feel better?”

Zayn can laugh now that they seem to be out of the most difficult neck of the woods, but it’s fake. And it’s only a matter of time before they’re standing in the thick brush of Zayn’s mistake for another time. How many hours or minutes or seconds will pass before they’re fighting to survive in the mess of low-hanging branches and whipping sticks?

Zayn’s speaking before he’s thinking when he asks, “What are we doing? Why do we keep having the same conversation?”

And he sees Liam bat away the question with the flash of a wounded look before he’s smiling in Zayn’s face again, and looking up at him with happiness that Zayn doesn’t think they should be able to feel. “You raised us both to be stubborn, I guess.”

The joke is taken as the icebreaker that it is, but Zayn still holds Liam with flickering fingers and a poisoned heart. “I don’t want us to rip each other apart for the rest of our lives over this.”

Liam’s eyes are bigger than the holes he’s littered Zayn’s heart with, and wet with wonder. “You want me for the rest of your life?”

If that’s not the dumbest—fuck. Fuck, that has to be the craziest—has Zayn not made it clear? “I want to fuck you for the rest of my life, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Liam pulls back to laugh, and he plants himself on the carpet with a sharp pull to Zayn’s hands. He doesn’t enjoy this, sprawling on the floor when there is a perfectly good bed they could spread themselves out on. Liam’s always been one for leisure and spontaneity, which leaves Zayn listening to Liam giggle while he makes himself as comfortable as possible in the crook of Liam’s blessedly bare arm.

“You really know how to ruin the mood, you know that?” Liam makes work of the short hairs towards the ticklish spots near Zayn’s neck. He’s spoken, and Zayn’s body did most of the replying, twisting unnaturally in its battle to get farther and closer to Liam’s touch all in the same instant.

“’Cause I said I want to screw you forever? It’s a lot better than fighting, even with the making up.”

Liam snorts, and Zayn tries to make himself comfortable with the flames of Liam’s fingers licking over his skin. From his neck, and down to his side—where the mark of their bond lies—and Zayn grits his teeth, holding on to all that’s good about this moment.

“We like, never have make up sex,” Liam reminds him.

Zayn pioneers his own path of embers to follow with his finger; obviously he makes sure his trail intersects with Liam’s squeamish abs and his stupidly long arms. Zayn wants to do something to soothe the tickling and maybe the burn of his fingertips this close to Liam’s heart, so he whispers. “If it helps, I want to do this with you forever, too. Lie on the goddamn carpet and get all into my feelings.” His face warms without his permission and Zayn has to reel himself back inside his walls for a second of steady breathing. “If that makes me a girl, then fuck you.”

“I didn’t say that, I didn’t say anything.” It’s uncanny how Liam draws him back out with strong fingers jogging through Zayn’s hair, and soft kisses to the helm of Zayn’s forehead. “Tell me more.”

Zayn rearranges his organs inside his skin, scooping his heart out of his throat to return it to its rightful place in his chest. “Don’t be greedy,” Zayn chastises quickly to hide his embarrassment, because he doesn’t think he can conjure any more romantic circumstances and still hold true to his integrity.

Liam’s fingers are there, however, cutting into Zayn’s ribs. He hates that Liam can strip away his credentials until Zayn is a wiggling mess, and each graze of Liam’s fingertips sizzles nicely into Zayn’s torso until he’s surrendering. “Okay, okay. But I get something for this later, and don’t go around telling our friends that I was spinning fairytales with you.”

Liam knows better to be anything less than earnest when he looks Zayn in the eyes and presses him back into the carpet. Zayn thinks he’s going to get a kiss, one that doesn’t make him want to tear his lips from his face—a kiss that doesn’t make him want to cry—but instead he’s sinking impossibly farther into the carpet with a smiling Liam above him. “Oh-fucking-kay, _okay._ ”

Liam doesn’t hang his head in the crook of Zayn’s neck, he watches. He allows Zayn to strip himself to the bone right before his eyes, and it feels pretty damn good. Zayn occupies his fingers with the end of Liam’s chin, stroking and touching and just feeling. “I want to argue with you, not for fucking ever,” he clarifies, poking the corner of Liam’s smile and returning to his original thought. “But even though you drive me insane, I wouldn’t trade any fight we’ve had for a fight with someone else.”

Zayn’s not good with words, and he hears that come out wrong, but he won’t dare retract one word. As fucked up as it sounded, it’s what he meant, and that should count for something. “So I give really good fight,” Liam is asking, nipping at the tip of Zayn’s fingers when he roams towards that cheeky smile again. “That’s what you’re telling me.”

Zayn has to focus his eyes to really see him, no matter how close he is. When he looks to his left Zayn can see Liam’s arm folded, supporting his weight and allowing him the room to gaze upon Zayn and all of the open secrets he wears on his brow. And Zayn prays, really hopes, that Liam sees all the things Zayn envisions when he looks back up at Liam.

“No,” Zayn corrects, letting the words drop before he picks them back up to stand beside them. “Well, yeah. I mean. You’re also the only person I don’t want to shoot at the end of the day.” Zayn silences the words ready to come from Liam’s mouth with one finger, dipping into the stubborn jut of those lips. “Don’t even bring up tonight, because that wasn’t the point, not really. I didn’t want him to really shoot you, okay?”

Zayn gets high on speaking, and he’s not really looking at anything anymore when he talks. Except maybe the dumb and happy boy re-burning the skin at Zayn’s side with long fingers.

“I want to protect you forever, Liam. And don’t make that fucking face, I mean it.” Zayn gets delirious, moving his hands away from Liam hands to spin in the air with the scenarios his mind pulls from the space above their heads. “From the world, from bank robbers and zombies. From assholes on the street. From me. I just want you to be safe.”

“I think if I can deal with you and all the family drama that comes with you, I can stomach an episode of The Walking Dead.” It’s a joke, they’re laughing, but it’s true.

“That’s my point.”

Liam’s sigh might be what breaks their bliss, or it might have been Zayn’s cynicism, but they’re back in that part of the woods. No amount of Zayn watching Liam’s arms flex and torso glisten will change that. No heat from their hands and no charred flesh from their kisses. Because their burning passion will only send them up in flames.

Liam’s not nice in the way he jerks Zayn up off his back and into a seated position—still on the fucking carpet, mind him—they must look ridiculous to anyone that should come walking past their open door. Zayn’s not a perishable item, but Liam holds him like glass. Like Zayn’s precious when he’s not.

“ _I_ want to have a conversation without you throwing yourself under the bus. _I_ want to hold your hand, outside of a hotel room or a storage closet,” and Liam makes his point, cupping Zayn’s hand until he’s squeezing back, and they’re both in danger of never letting go. “And I want to do it without ruining a family truce that Simon’s had with the Edwards’ for longer than we’ve _been together_.”

“I can’t—”

Liam doesn’t want platitudes and excuses, Zayn can respect that. He joins their mouths, one kiss, one. A slick slide of lips that Zayn could drink in, and Liam’s moving away a fraction to hush him. “Shh.”

They sit there, and Zayn wonders how they got so lost—how they had to find each other when they never took their eyes away from their joined hands. “I want to make love to you, and then make you burn your eggs the next morning,” he saddles Zayn with another kiss, a breath that they share separating them when he speaks again. “Because how could you concentrate on breakfast with me, naked, in _our_ bed?”

A kiss, and another. And one more.

“I want this house, because even though I hate it, _you love it_.” Liam’s talking in big words, ones with more meaning than Zayn can wrap his heart around. He looks Zayn in the eye with each one, waging their impact and stroking a knuckle at a time while he carries on. “That’s enough for me.”

He can taste his want for Liam’s passion, in stays in his mouth and he hungers for more. Zayn wants to wrap his hands around Liam’s good intentions, and his slender neck, and maybe even the nice words that he keeps saying. Liam can taste it too, Zayn sees it.

Liam makes him temporarily content with a kiss to Zayn’s heated cheeks. “I would never bring kids into this world, but I’d really like to see you try and raise a teenager before you turn forty.” Zayn opens his mouth against Liam’s in a dry laugh that they swallow momentarily, caught in their high-running passion. Their tongues tangle, as well as their hands and bodies before Liam is limiting himself and wiping away traces of himself from Zayn’s lip with the pad of his thumb. “Mostly because karma is a bitch, and Eleanor and I both think you would be the biggest pushover in the fucking world.”

“Is that so?” There isn’t anything Zayn’s ever encountered in his lifetime that could take the smile from his face at this exact second in time.

Liam’s nodding into his space, his nose dragging tickles up and down Zayn’s face until he’s breathing into his ear, and holding him like Zayn’s always been his whole world.

“Yeah, it is.” Liam waits for Zayn to pay close attention, to really look at him. “So you can keep the zombies and the bank robbers. And you can bring down that tower of self sacrificial bullshit you’ve been building for the last twenty years, because _I_ _want you_. I want you forever.” Zayn thinks Liam might actually mean it, he means it. That he wants this—this fucked up and twisted version of love they’ve created—and he can’t recall hearing anything more great. “None of it fits anymore, none if it. Not into the life that I want after all this. The life I want with you.”

There’s not anything else that Zayn can add to that. Nothing besides, “That’s all nice, but a bit ridiculous,” because everyone knows, “I don’t make my own eggs, Liam. We have _people_ for that.”

Liam’s already bitten through his lip, the nerves of Zayn’s looming rejection catching him off guard. Now that he’s in the clear, and it’s evident to him that Zayn does love him, but he’s still an asshole, he’s taken to hitting Zayn and crashing into him in a reversed song and dance. “I fucking hate you.”

“You know,” Zayn adds, letting Liam wrap himself up in Zayn’s arms. “If we ever adopted any kids, you’d have to cut back with the swearing.”

Zayn expects Liam to tell him to fuck right off, but he’s quiet and his mind has wandered too fast for Zayn to catch up without help. “You’d really adopt a kid with me?”

“I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet, Liam, but we can’t exactly have kids of our own.”

Zayn rests the combined weight of him and Liam on the end of the bed, pillowing his head and hopes and dreams right here in Liam’s soft hair.

“I’m serious, I know—shit—I know this is all a mess.” Zayn grips onto any strip of skin and bone he can find while he waits for Liam to string together a sentence he can make sense of. “We’re a mess, we have so much to fix—to do. But those are things I still want after we figure this out.”

“If you haven’t learned by now that I would do anything for you, you haven’t been paying very close attention.”

And when Liam touches Zayn’s hand, it doesn’t hurt anymore.

**/////**

“Zayn, you’ve got a phone call—oh, _Jesus, fuck._ ” Eleanor’s exposed to quite the sight, Zayn supposes. Not as glorious as the one he has—Liam’s lips wrapped around him, hands tight on Zayn’s thighs, but a sight is a sight. “Liam, you’re supposed to be lining up vendors for the reopening.”

Zayn makes it very clear to his business partner that he’s displeased with her interruption, but she has no respect for the hard-on he now has to sit in here with while Liam relinquishes his place on his knees. This leaves Zayn to bid goodbye with a kiss as he’s helping Liam up from the floor.

“Later?” It’s cheeky and suggestive with just the right amount of tinted cheeks to remind Zayn of the man before him—sly and still a little reserved about things they should probably keep in the bedroom. But where the fuck is the fun in that?

He’s got no shame, Zayn. And he’s not even thought to catalogue the people mulling around outside of Eleanor’s office before he’s nuzzling Liam’s cheek with his nose. He’s checked of all forms of later ignorance with small—but strikingly noticeable—whimpers as Liam makes his getaway strides, and he doesn’t think Eleanor will ever let him forget the sounds as soon as they pass his lips.

“Oh, now isn’t that cute?”

And he’s right.

Liam’s checking her smugness with a jut of his hip against hers on his way out, and Zayn’s still got to button up the fly of his dress pants. “You leave him alone, Eleanor.”

Zayn takes her cue cards when Eleanor hands them over, both of them silent now that Liam’s gone, and they’re left with the sticky substance of false acknowledgement on their tongues. He looks her in the eye, though, because Zayn finally doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of.

They both recognize the respect lingering in the air between them, and she’s nodding to Zayn on her way out. “I’m proud of you, boss.”

Zayn wasn’t aware that her approval was something he had been seeking all along. “”Because I can kiss Liam in public?” Zayn can admit that he’s being silly, and his petulance only grows more ridiculous as he seats himself with folded arms. “I did that before, okay? So stop busting my balls so much.”

Zayn doesn’t like the things he sees when he looks back at Eleanor; pride and loyalty and more pride. “It’s so much more than that, my friend.”

She stares at him until he’s ripped away all his primitive armor, and Zayn can smile at her words without stabbing his morals in the chest.

“Niall called,” she reminds him, he’s assuming that’s the reason she came barging in here to begin with, never mind that this is her office. “Remember that, so I don’t get chewed out about not giving you a heads up later on in the afternoon.”

Niall’s phone calls are important to Zayn, especially with all he’s tasked the lad with over the past couple of weeks, but he’s awaiting a phone call from his father. Maybe from a holding cell, or on his way back to his home once his lawyer dismisses the charges he’s saddled with, countering it with the legal jargon Simon pays him to speak.

This leaves Zayn unbothered by Niall’s phone calls, at least for the time being.

“Did it sound urgent?” Zayn hasn’t forgotten what Eleanor interrupted him in the middle of, but he does try to busy himself with the task cards she’s provided him with. He quickly orders them in order of most important and looks up to see Eleanor still in the doorway leading out to their club. Zayn rubs each of his palms together before addressing her again. “Because if it’s not, it can wait until I hear back from Simon.”

“He was talking about taking Crystal out on a date just before he mentioned you?” Zayn notes the hint of resentment in her voice, but chalks it up to her lack of interesting prospects lately. Eleanor’s looking out at the bar and walking briskly toward him, pulling his folded hands until he’s standing oddly at her desk. “I think you have time to drown a few sorrows before you rind him back.”

She wants to drink, and Zayn can’t say he would mind joining. A look at the clock tells him he has long hours ahead of him until nightfall. What the hell, Zayn figures, it’s a drink, maybe two. He’s pulling away from Eleanor to take his over coat away from his shoulders.

“One drink,” he supplies, hoping she won’t let him be distracted for too long, because drinking never really washes your problems away. “I’m having _one round_ with you, and then I’m getting back to work. Getting drunk in the middle of the day while everyone else prepares for our re-opening makes us look like shit bosses.”

Eleanor’s waiting for him, peeking around the corner and drawing up a smile that doesn’t make Zayn feel any better about letting his inhibitions go for the hour. He sees the dark flash of a frown before she’s smiling again, and Zayn really should ask her what her hell has been lately. “I’ve never been too concerned with appearances, but I think you might want more than one drink.”

What’s she fucking up to? “Why?”

“It looks like you have company, boss man.” Eleanor’s smile is back in place, but it’s a toothy one, and that has yet to be good for him in all the years that he’s called Eleanor his friend. “Special Agent Long Legs is standing right in the middle of our club.”

Zayn’s heart is heavy once again because he can’t say this is surprising or welcomed on today, of all of the days the London Bureau should choose to harass him. “Duty calls, I guess.”

He runs his fingers over a stray thread in his shirt pocket and slides his suit jacket back into place. Appearances are the most important thing when encountering the enemy, and Zayn would hate not to look his best.

“Yeah, I guess it does.” Eleanor’s bringing her phone from the pocket of her slacks and moving her thumbs along the screen, never taking her eyes away from the bar—where Zayn suspects their visitor is idling. She looks up at Zayn as he nears her by the doorframe. “Want me to lead Liam out the back door?”

Zayn opens the cupboard in back of their office door and pads his waist with a Wesson, and a burner phone to call Niall back on later should he not make it back to retrieve his actual cell locked in his office past Eleanor’s. Zayn takes a look out of the door to access his problem before he comes up with an answer to Eleanor’s question.

“Common fed, looks like.” He shakes his head when she nods back over in Liam’s direction, he can stay put making a new menu with Matthew over in the kitchen, Zayn’s got eyes on this guy. So does everyone else. “He doesn’t look like he’ll be a problem. Liam should be just find mulling around the back.”

“Why would he come in here when we’re not open?” Eleanor has always been one to coin suspicions, and Zayn can’t say it doesn’t make his days interesting. He shakes his head with no answer and walks through the door to the club, magnetically pulling Eleanor to the bar with him.  She’s got stiff shoulders when she keeps pace with Zayn enough to lean in and whisper a question. “Are they sitting on you while Simon goes through with the deal?”

“Most likely,” Zayn answers. “Let’s find out.”

The body’s taken a seat at the end of Zayn’s bar, and the limited chaos around him allows him to stick out amongst Zayn’s crowd of employees. His legs are long enough, and before he sat down, Zayn watched them lead him to the bar top in the most peculiar manner. Liam would say he’s got a stick up his ass, but it’s different from the gait that Eleanor claims Zayn to have. Unlike Zayn, the suit’s stride doesn’t _demand_ respect, it _expects_ it.

Just like any other representative of the badge, Zayn notices. The man sets his shoulders back in a dare that any person in side this bar would surely take. Zayn still has a few members of protection mixed in with the working crew, for Liam’s sake, but they stay concealed moving tables and hammering walls with neon lights. Zayn would love to see this guy square his shoulders in their direction.

Zayn almost breaks his neck trying to gauge the height of this guys’ hair. It stands tall in a dangerous way, and Zayn wonders if it would fall over should he get too close—a defense mechanism, of sorts.

Zayn pats the bar once he’s there. He knows everyone’s seen the guy, even if they’re not making it obvious.

“Jace, get this lovely man a drink, would you?” Jace gives Zayn a look of obvious confusion, but it doesn’t turn into defiance with the lack of slack Zayn fives him in return. Once he’s moving form his task of cataloguing glasses, and onto taking liquor from the shelves, Zayn smiles. “It’s on the house. And get me a top shelf while you’re at it.”

Zayn leaves a seat between them, and Eleanor sits far at the other end of the bar, hair curtaining her face while she scrolls back through her phone. She’s never had courtesy for Feds, Zayn doesn’t blame her. She does laugh at his open mocking, though, so Zayn doesn’t give her a pair of disappointed eyes.

“No,” is the first word this guy says, and Zayn wonders if he knows that UC’s are supposed to be agents of improve. Granted, he’s failed to conceal himself at all—shown everything but his fucking badge—he should at least take the drink Zayn’s offered. “I don’t drink while I’m on the job.”

He talks slow, it’s like listening to honey drip back into a bottle. But he smiles brilliantly, goofily with his whole face. “But thank you, really. Maybe once you open this place back up.”

Zayn nods, and he thankfully has a shot in front of him when he looks down. He shoots it back and taps the bar for another, the fresh burning making an excellent pathway for his questions. “And what exactly is in your job description…” Zayn leaves an opening for a name and he’s responded to in kind.

“Harry. Agent Styles if that’s what you—you know, because I’m an agent.”

Zayn smiles. “Yeah, I got that.”

His fingers drum, Zayn’s, and he taps his feet, too. It seems fitting, he doesn’t know why. Eleanor gets Zayn’s attention and raises their cordless landline—it’s Niall, again—he’ll answer at another time. Maybe after a drink, or two. If it was really important, he’d leave a message, or make a visit to Zayn in the flesh.

Zayn’s got an agent in his club, there are more pressing matters.

“So did you come here to ask me something, or are you gonna take up space in my closed bar all afternoon and not drink the booze I offer you?”  Zayn’s patience is running thin, and he’d really like another drink if he’s going to keep sitting here.

“Oh, no. I do, I have some questions.” The way he—Harry—flusters, forces Zayn to wonder just exactly how low the bar has been set for the recruiting agencies.

Jace snickers behind the bar, white rag strewn across his shoulder like he’s been doing something other than counting cups all fucking day, and Zayn stops him with a slam of his glass on the wooden top. It leaves Jace’s hands occupied in getting him a refill, and it allots Harry the time to pull out his badge, protocol style.

Agent Styles is smothering his innocent aura in a federal façade that leaves Zayn worse for wear, but he’s also smiling on the inside for the little guy. Not that Harry is little, no, but Zayn doesn’t stop grinning.

“Agent Harold Styles,” he doesn’t bring his lips up on either side, but his grimace fails to be intimidating. He flashes a badge, and if Zayn is thinking clearly, it’s the first one he’s seen this close. That’s weird, considering he’s had one in his face since he learned how to step outside the walls Simon had furnished for Zayn.

Zayn takes another drink, nodding, and not finding it hard to be genuine when he speaks. “That’s very nice, shiny.”

His eyes don’t stray from the man to his left, not even for the fresh line of drinks Jace has set in front of him. It’s probably why Harry can’t hide the fraction of a second he takes to compose himself before the smile spreads across his face. He’s clearing his throat, and balling his large and gangly hand to his chest, then talking to Zayn once again while he brings up a briefcase from the floor.

That troubles Zayn, the case. Cases come with files, and files come with actual questions that hold more depth than the inquiry to sit in one’s bar. Zayn runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. “Is it really necessary for you to sit on me right now?”

Harry answers him with an odd twist of his eyebrow that leaves Zayn with worry in the heart of his stomach. He’s glad that Liam is taking obvious cues, staying out of the light while Zayn conducts business that doesn’t concern him. But the longer Agent Styles sits in Zayn’s bar, with no acknowledgement to the already open case they have with Yaser and Veronica, the more he itches to tell Eleanor to go ahead and get Liam the hell out of here.

“I’m just here to ask questions.” He serves him up an official smile, one that Zayn doesn’t buy this time, because it’s nothing like the row of teeth he’d received before Harry yanked his badge from his pocket. “Now,” he says to Zayn, because no one else is actively listening, “if I can find—yes, here.”

Harry's glancing and double glancing at the top sheets in his very prestigious case, and Zayn leaves him to it to take another drink of alcoholic courage while Eleanor slinks away to answer the cordless in a place with less ears. Zayn’s got an open burner in his pocket awaiting news from Simon, but he doubts he’ll be able to go anywhere without a fuss while he’s got an academy fresh agent chatting him up.

Zayn takes another drink.

The law abiding citizen to his left turns his body towards Zayn, but he doesn’t bother standing. “Do the names Amelia and Jacobi mean anything to you, Mr. Malik?”

Zayn can at least be flattered that he’s not being spied on while Simon undergoes questioning. Not that he’d give straight answers anyhow, Zayn does mull over the names with a tumbler between his fingers. “Do these people have last names? Or they the Madonna and Cher types?”

He can almost say he’s proud of the way Harry refuses to cave under Zayn’s sarcastic scrutiny. The professionalism doesn’t leave his eyes or his shoulders. “Not any ones that will stick in a trace, I’m afraid.” Harry must see the lack of recognition in Zayn’s eyes, so he continues in a brisker pace than before with more intent for straight answers. “How about Janine and _Malcolm_? They would be a couple.”

Zayn would never entertain the thought of making an agent’s job easier than it had to be, even if he appreciates the way he smiles or the stumbles in his speech, but none of those names stand out to him, really. That presents Zayn with a less guilty path of resistance during his next sip.

“Last names or no, I don’t know anyone with names like that.” When Zayn shrugs he can’t look at Harry, so he focuses on the flickering eyes of his bartender, and the way he drifts back and forth during Zayn’s private conversation. When he glares, Jace takes notice and ends up at the other end of the bar, and Zayn’s fixing his lips into a smirk somewhere in Harry’s direction. “You’ll have to find Bonnie and Clyde on your own.”

Zayn is familiar with the sigh of disappointment that Harry heaves, but he’s got his own problems to worry about. For instance, in the next second Liam is slamming open the door to the small kitchenette—kid has a gift for tantrums—and he’s holding up his cell phone when Zayn turns his head to gaze upon the commotion.

“Zayn, if Niall calls me _one more time_ …” Liam’s yelling, and Zayn thinks his outburst has more to do with the worry he’s harboring about Zayn talking to a stranger at the bar than it does for a cheery, blonde Irishman ringing him on the phone.

Zayn placates him with a smile from afar, but Liam is sticking out a red, bitten lip, so he sighs in concession. “Alright, I’m fucking coming.”

Liam’s smiling at him and walking back into the kitchen before Zayn can get his ass off the barstool. Zayn pretends he doesn’t see him peeking out the square window of the door.

“Mr. Malik, I need—” Leave it to Liam to distract Zayn from the narc sitting in his club. When Zayn looks at Harry, his face is distraught with sudden frustration, and Zayn almost feels bad for shutting him down. Then, he’s reminded of the badge this man shares with Veronica, and the pity rolls away faster than it stormed in.

“Look, I _can’t_ help you,” Zayn makes his points very clear, and keeps a dose of restraint when his eyes linger on an extra, forgotten shot in reaching distance. Harry’s tapping feet bring him to the present, where Agent Styles is looking very desperate, and Zayn is feeling generous, but not to that degree. “Honestly, if I could help you, I wouldn’t. I’ve got a business to run.” Zayn’s shoulders rise in a small defeat when he’s corned by the quick appearance of sadly overwhelmed eyes, courtesy of one Agent Harold, and he’s caving, just a little. “But hey, you look like you’ve had a shitty day, so go ahead and take that drink, a tall one, on the house.”

Harry’s return gratitude is in a small grin, but Zayn points an authoritative finger in his direction and tries to speak with a little less pity this time. “But as soon as you start slurping, you hit the pavement. I don’t have anything against you, mate, but I’m not in the mood for cops right now.”

Zayn does have to give him props for being convincing. “Zayn—it’s Zayn right? I’m here because these people are dangerous. They’re hurting people all around this city—my city—and I’m trying to stop them.”

And persistent, is he ever.

But Eleanor’s calling him—it’s Niall _again_ —and Zayn really does have to take care of business. He closes his eyes and turns away from the small temptation of mercy sitting at the end of his bar. Zayn’s just not that reformed, not yet. “There’s nothing I can do for you, kid. You should really have that drink.”

“Okay.”

“See yourself out when you’re done.”

**/////**

“Niall, Niall—slow the _fuck_ down.” Zayn already has a hard enough time making words out of Niall’s Irish accent, and added speed doesn’t make his job of interpretation any easier.

Zayn’s taken his call on the landline, Eleanor hands over her precious cordless just as Zayn’s about to step into the office to take this private call. He’s thought better of it, since those few seconds passed, and now he stands by his dark-haired associate and watches her speak into a radio that transmits toward different stations of the club. Both of them keep an eye on Harry, each sip going slower than the last.

Zayn is almost lost watching him strangle his sorrows with a Long Island Iced Tea, but Niall’s yelling into his ear. “I did it, Zayn. It’s summat close to a miracle, but I’ve gone and done it!”

The nail of Zayn’s left thumb finds itself ground between the whites of his front teeth, and he speaks next with a purposed lisp. “You did what, exactly?”

“What ya asked, I did it?” Niall’s fast response falls into Zayn’s ear as a question of his listener’s memory, and Zayn can’t say that he’s pleased about the dig of wit, but he’d really like to know what Niall is going on about.

“Niall,” it’s long suffering, the way Zayn exhales. “I’ve asked an awful lot of you, but I can’t let you dazzle me with the How-To.” The images of a clock in the far corner laps with the vision of Harry’s feet bouncing up and down on the barstool peg, Zayn can’t be leisurely with his time. “If you have information, I need you to give it to me straight.”

“No,” isn’t a word Zayn hears often, unless he’s hanging around with his business partners solely for days with no end. It’s most assuredly not a word he hears uttered from his Communications Consult, and it’s definitely not ever shouted with a muffled bang resonating somewhere in the background. “Zayn, I have to—I’ve _gotta_ spell it out for ya. ‘M goin’ crazy, here. I did it, and it’s all connected. Every bit of it.”

The urgency in his tone lessens the times Zayn catches himself looking back at Agent Styles, and increases the tap of his own shoe against the shucked tiles. Zayn’s elbow catches the side of Eleanor’s arm, and he nods in Harry’s direction—telling her to keep an eye out while he might turn his back—before whispering the go ahead into his receiver. “From the beginning, Ni.”

Zayn has seen Niall’s workspace, it’s a mess, and he’s always moving. From one screen to another, and his fingers are a flurry of movements that can’t be tracked once he’s caught a scent via any internet feed. Zayn sees that now in his mind, and the tinny sounds transmitted to his ears—clicks and clacks and slurps—help him picture the space Niall’s taking up right in this second.

“Simon’s connected to it all, all of it.” He speaks candidly, leaving Zayn to assume they’ve got a secure line, and he lets his fingers squeeze tighter around the phone as he listens. “Each murder in the city leads back to him. Could be some from other towns, from before, but someone’s lurking around in his footsteps, I’m sure of it. Already checked for alibis, and he’s got plenty of ‘em.” Zayn doesn’t bring up his gratitude at Niall having done his job thoroughly, clearing his father before Zayn made a verbal request. “Your dad’s not a killer, Zayn. Well, not a _real_ killer.” It’s almost fun hearing Niall stumble while finding the right words. “I know he’s done—”

“No interested in Simon’s moral compass.” Because Zayn doesn’t need any proof that Simon isn’t the one running around killing people, the city might, but Zayn wouldn’t bat an accusing eye in his direction. Not after today, not after the sacrifice he’s busy making with the only real devil Zayn’s ever met.

“Right, well you asked about the lady in the paper, so I made some calls to a few fellas that worked the same local beat the paper would’a been centered ‘round.”

Zayn makes sure to keep each piece of information in a formal line on the map of his mind, it’s the only way he can hope to make sense out of the pieces. Niall’s bringing pieces of information to his screen, re-tracking the path he followed to get to the information he’s bound to share—that’s his process.

There’s a slurping from the other end, and Zayn closes his eyes to listen. “No one would say anything until I started asking the _right questions_ , you know.” Niall’s laughing to himself, words still brisk and impatient as they come from Niall’s lips. “I guess the Cowell’s have been scaring people into silence for generations, huh?”

Jokes, Niall’s making _jokes_.

Zayn’s eyes open just enough to see Harry hailing for another tall glass of spiked tea. Zayn’s tending to his own business, as long as Inspector Gadget is paying for his own round this time, Zayn doesn’t care how much he drinks. “Could you fucking go on, Niall? Get on with it before I get too bored to send you a paycheck.”

If Zayn didn’t know any better, he’d say that Niall had to right himself from falling out of his chair. “Okay, don’t get loose in the noggin, mate, I’m gettin’ there. I called actual journalists, people who might remember a something as juicy as a mob prince’s fiancé, but no one would drop any names.”

His tongue stings at the bite Zayn sustains to withhold his irritation. “If you didn’t get a name, why are you calling me?”

“No one _knew_ her name, just her title—Simon’s mistress.” Niall has an excited tone to each word that he formulates, and Zayn can almost feel his smile attempting to burst through his phone—as disturbing as that image is. Niall’s breath is heavy, but his words come out quicker than before, so Zayn doesn’t mind the phantom fog he can feel in his ear. “She was already married, with two kids—but fuck, shit, I’ll get to that in a minute. It goes dead on her from there, so I tried to link summat up.”

Zayn stands here in his club, pressed right up against the truth, with his hands in a sweat and his eyes screwed shut. Love never means anything good, not in the lives he and his father lead, especially if it had to be hidden.

He steels his appearance to remain calm as Niall prepares to serve Zayn with evidence of guilt that’s now interlinked to a woman who could be seeking out retribution for a ruined marriage, the matter of who was rolling in the sheets nothing of importance. Or perhaps it’s a scorned husband, but it’s _someone_ , and they’ve pinned the word guilty onto Simon’s forehead for the last time.

Zayn has to remind himself once more that he has company, and he can’t alert anyone that he’s melting in a pool of his own inner turmoil. Eleanor’s gone from his side to join a newly surfaced Liam on a long table in a far corner of the room, where the overheads barely light them up for Zayn to see. Zayn waves, and mumbles an okay for Niall to continue.

“Well,” he says, speaking more prim, because after all this is Niall’s livelihood, solving problems with a mouse and ten fingers and a processor. Zayn lets him take his time, one tradesman to another. “I got a description. And no don’t ask for it, ’s better if I work it out in story form, trust me on that, ‘right?”

Zayn wasn’t going to ask, but he hums for Niall to keep leading him down his elaborate path to the truth. “’s weird, and kind of funny, ‘cause I heard the _same description_ earlier on Channel 5 the week that Moonlight Walk was hit, and Marie got killed. Some broad said she overheard Marie tell a customer that she thought she’d seen a ghost, which is super creepy during a murder investigation.”

Never one to believe in the supernatural, Zayn inserts his input. “And not relevant at all.”

Niall corrects him with a high clicking of his tongue that suggests he’s shaking his finger at Zayn on his side of the phone. “ _It is_ if I got a traffic cam that looks directly at the shop, and it’s even more relevant if my old buddy Davis has a grandpa that’s in the same picture as Simon and his Monica Lewinski—one without words on her face.”

“Simon would have to be married for this chick to be his big M, Niall.” Even though that’s really not the point, Zayn just thought he should know.

Ignoring him, Niall carries on as if Zayn had never uttered a word. “Instead of running the original picture of the lass through a Bureau database, I created a program to match faces with the traffic cam—it has a goddamn near perfect view of the front door.”

Zayn can barely restrain himself, but he does when Liam catches his eye to wave. Zayn’s painting a smile onto his face and asking the question from the side of his mouth. “Did you find a match? Was she in the store? Is she the one trying to frame my father?”

“I _did_ find a match,” Niall confirms, allowing Zayn to breathe with less stops. Less gaps in between filled lungs. “But it’s not her, ’s someone who looks almost exactly like her. Program reads facial markers—cheeks, brows, chins, foreheads—there were only three matches from all six databases I used to provide matches for the system.”

Zayn has to stop and think, because the slow form that Niall’s speech takes on isn’t sitting right with his brain. He’s not as excited, it’s almost cryptic the way Niall starts tiptoeing around the subject the closer they get to anything of substance. So, Zayn has to ask, “Is Simon’s mistress someone we know? If it’s not her, how can it be a match?”

Niall almost sounds disappointed before he speaks, and the knot in Zayn’s stomach almost rips him in two halves. “Because it was a close relative of someone we know, I’m guessing.”

Zayn would like to look back at this point and say he knew the truth before Niall even spoke it to him. But he’s stubborn, and Zayn’s pride is an elaborate thing that sometimes ties him in binds that his fingers can’t cut him loose from. “You can’t just guess, Niall. I need you to be sure about whatever you tell me.”

“There are aliases for the first match, Amelia, Janine—some others, yeah. But I did some digging, and I think you know the actual name.”

Zayn spits it out like its horrid food. “Veronica? She wasn’t—she wouldn’t have been more than four years old, then, Niall. Simon’s plenty of years her senior, it doesn’t make sense for her face to be in the paper and on the camera.”

Niall remains calm with Zayn, but he can’t see it all spinning out of control, because for the first time, he just doesn’t understand. Zayn can’t see the truth, not from where he’s standing. “Zayn, Veronica’s the woman in the store—the ghost, I reckon.” he says, kind and considerate, with a surprising lack of Irish jib. “The woman in the paper—Simon’s mistress. Zayn, I’m sorry mate, I know it’s—it doesn’t make sense. But she was your mother. It has to be her.”

Zayn is choking on words he can’t quite find. “How do you—”

“Because when I ran her face through the program, yeah? Veronica comes up under three aliases, but it’s not an exact match. And well, the only other match was you.”

There’s a moment, sometime when you’re a kid, and you have this moment of brightness—sometimes when you’re checking the mail all by yourself for the first time, or when you’re riding your bike and the wind hits your face just right—and you gain a clarity you won’t understand until you’re much older, when those moments are few and far in between. Zayn has that now, he’s nine and running though the grass and he’s looking directly into the sun without crying. He sees the world around him with fresh eyes, and an imprint of something bigger than all of them staining his vision, no matter how may times he tries to blink it away.

Why Simon saved him from the fire, why he took Zayn into his home. Liam was just along for the ride—always the passenger on a road he didn’t ask to travel. Zayn can see why Simon loves him, and why he would sacrifice himself and the livelihood he had left to admit to a crime that doesn’t look to be on his hands, not anymore.

Zayn has to catch his breath, he has to breathe silently and turn away from the eyes that watch him.

Simon was in love with Zayn’s mother, and without biology, he fathered one of her children. He’s sure that Simon’s a wreck having to look at him day after day, seeing the ghost of a woman that will always haunt him. Zayn can’t begin to imagine what Simon feels today, having to look at Veronica.

She’s a killer, and Zayn has proof. A woman with a badge and a gun and a face that will bring Simon the grief of a dead lover, one he never stopped mourning.

A lover to Zayn’s mother—the wife of Yaser, an up and coming officer of the law.

How could that—no.

“Niall,” it’s all coming down—the moment of clarity is gone, and life is coming back into focus. Zayn’s holding the phone to his ear, what he hears next will be very important. Almost as important as catching the federal agent who is now packing up his briefcase at Zayn’s bar. “Niall, did you say Janine? Janine and Amelia? Those were the aliases that look like me? A female version, Veronica?”

Harry is very right to be on guard as Zayn rushes him, phone in hand. What makes him supremely _not smart_ is pulling his gun in fear of his safety when Zayn snatches his case and rips the papers from the inside. Seven barrels are placed at Harry’s head immediately, but Zayn sees all of that only from his peripherals. He’s got to look, _to see_.

“What are you looking for,” Harry asks, and he’s right to panic, each one of Zayn’s men _will_ shoot. Zayn ignores him in favor of rifling, he’s waiting for Niall to answer and trying to make heads and tails of each paper before deciding it’s not the one he’s looking for. Harry coughs, gun still raised, nervous. “If you tell me what you’re looking for, I can help you find it.”

Zayn holds his phone to his ear, but waits for Niall to pull the records back up to confirm, he’d never give Zayn anything less than 100% assurance. “You got a picture of Bonnie and Clyde?”

“Just Bonnie,” Harry uses the end of his gun to point the Zayn’s hand. “Turn that over, it’s on that sheet you’ve got.”

Zayn does just as well, waving his men down with a bat of his hand, allowing them to free an angry Liam and a confused Eleanor, but he doesn’t have time to cater to their questions and concerns. He looks down at the file in his hands and there she is, a picture of Janine, Amelia— _Veronica_.

“Niall, those names, I need ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Niall’s saying. “I said Amelia and Janine, but those are Veronica’s aliases, I imagine. I’m sure they’re in there for federal reasons. I’ve got databases most agents don’t have clearance to. Now are we going to talk about how Simon was in love with _your mom_? This is a big—it’s a _huge fuckin’ deal_ , mate.”

This can’t be happening. A fake agent, all this time, and Zayn played right into her hands. He’ll never forgive himself for allowing Andrew La Fazia be right—about the mercenaries at the safe house—he should have fucking seen it coming. That’s the most sense Zayn can make out of it. He wouldn’t doubt that Veronica tipped Liam off about the fire. Zayn’s been running in circles to keep his family out of the government’s hands—his sister’s hands—and he never even asked to look at her fucking badge.

Zayn all but gave Simon to Yaser and Veronica, no cops, just fake federal agents.

Zayn hand delivered his father to a pair of revenge seeking _murderers_.

The things some people will do for love, or the lack thereof.

“Zayn, we gonna talk about this, yeah?”

Zayn gives the nod for Eleanor and Liam to come forward through the line of men still bristling at Harry, who still has his fucking gun out. “Sure thing, Ni. Schedule me for some family counseling. But I’ve got to go.”

“Why, mate? We were just getting’ to the good part, yeah?”

 Zayn shakes his head; leave it to Niall to be amused by this, to think this is some virtual world where things don’t have consequences. “Niall, this is serious, I’ve gotta run, lad. I think I just helped my dad get kidnapped.” 

**/////**

Eleanor and Liam make no hesitation to cling to Zayn’s side as soon as they’re granted the chance. He’s disconnected Niall from the phone, and he really needs to find Louis. Before that, a game plan needs to mapped out in front of him, but all he can do is stand there with open mouths hurling questions in Zayn’s direction with his hands fisted in his pockets.

Simon is in trouble, and Zayn is responsible for placing him there.

Yaser and Veronica—Zayn’s biological family—they’re criminals, not unlike him, but they’re also teeming with the cold blood of a vendetta. Not the first person in this equation to take a life for the sole purpose of power and feed on it, Zayn can’t cast stones of a certain caliber in his sister’s direction. But he’s _never_ been a liar, not even stretched the truth to his advantage. Because Zayn is instilled with the values of his rightful father, not the hurt and angry man sacrificing souls in the name of a burned wife.

He can’t imagine Simon doing something so horrible, so drastic like torching a woman he loved, even if Zayn isn’t sure yet that his mother loved Simon back. There’s an explanation, he’s just got to find it. Zayn’s got to find Simon. Zayn has to save him, no other option even flits through his mind.

“Zayn, what’s going on,” is joined by a pair of familiar hands bracing his shoulders. It’s what snaps Zayn from the tunnel of thoughts he’d drowned himself in. It’s what starts him moving away from the crowd and leaving the sad eyes of his friends and lovers behind.

“Is Louis parked outside?” Zayn asks the question out loud as he stalks, turning around and causing a bubble of confusion amongst the mass following in his footsteps as he grabs the sleeves of the only man who will be of assistance: Agent Styles. Zayn bathes himself in professionalism and speaks directly to the largest, and most intimidating man his eyes find sight of. “If anyone wants to get a paycheck for today’s manual labor, I suggest you get back to work.”

And they scatter.

All but Liam, and of course Eleanor, who herself doesn’t look to challenge Zayn. She asks him what his requests will be with a scrunch of her defined eyebrows and a turn of her head in an inquisitive manner. “You keep Liam here, safe. I’m taking Magnum PI  with me to the lot where they were supposed to fucking arrest Simon.”

Liam’s talking, unmoving, and for his sake, Zayn tries not to listen.

Eleanor meets Zayn’s eyes, squinting at his hold on Harry, who Zayn assumes has as many inquiries as the rest of them. This leaves Zayn sighing, freeing Agent Styles in the same breath and planting his feet, bouncing on one foot and then the other. “Veronica has Simon,” Zayn watches Harry open his mouth the question, but Zayn silences him with a pointed finger and more explanations. “Veronica is your Amelia, your Janine—Bonnie, and Clyde isn’t her boyfriend, he’s her father. They have _my father_ , and if they’re smart, they’ll kill him. And they tricked me,” Zayn bows his head, regrets flooding his skull—how could he be so stupid. “They tricked me, so I know they’re smart.”

“They’re going to _question_ him, Zayn.” Liam’s voice is unwavering and unkind, littered with dubious concern for the wellbeing of the man responsible for him as well. Zayn still wears his mask, looking over at Liam and squandering the need to touch his unstill hands and knitted brows. “Veronica is _not_ the bad guy, here.”

But Simon is, right? The blame can’t be transferred to anyone else’s bloody hands, because it’s always Simon’s fault. Liam lives in a world where Simon isn’t capable of doing anything right, or good, or beneficial to their wellbeing. Simon is to blame every time. The Cowell prodigy can be held liable for all the miseries of Liam’s life, and for the guilt over the man he’s become, and the lack of motivation he holds to become the man he envisions himself being. Liam’s good intentions turning sour, that must also be Simon’s fault.

Now it’s Simon’s fault that he’s been kidnapped. He’s also in the red for turning Zayn into a temporary wreck of a man who can’t be dared to look Liam in the eyes. It can’t have _anything_ to do with the love that Zayn can feel running through his veins. Should Zayn look at Liam without his well-placed veil, he’ll be subjecting his partner to a man he won’t recognize, a savage with a mission to protect his own.

That’s not Simon’s burden to carry, it’s Zayn’s.

“Know what? Changed my mind—Liam, go out front and get in the car.” There’s a silent gasp of disbelief coming from both of his business partners, but Zayn doesn’t think Liam is willing to wait for Zayn to change his mind again, so he pushes past them, and he’s letting the sun into their dim hideout with seven slaps of his shoes against the flooring.

Harry fails to look lethal, but he does wait for Zayn to order him to step aside while he makes a final goodbye preceding their departure.

Eleanor steps to Zayn with a wiggling finger and eyes that don’t trust his judgment. “Liam does dirty work, all on paper. He makes negotiations, or he did before,” she waves her hand at the chaos closing in on them, “all of this. Sitting on the sidelines watching you _does not_ make him ready for a witch hunt.”

Zayn’s pleased with her level of concern, and also her conviction. He places sure hands on the skyline of her shoulders, set with the most beautiful, honest face Zayn’s seen on a woman in all his years. “Hiding Liam from the bad guys crippled him into not knowing how to identify them.” She doesn’t budge when Zayn makes an attempt to hug his friend’s body to his own. “And I’m not hunting witches, just undead relatives.”

Zayn can’t think of a better way to bid her farewell. She snorts into his neck, and her arms make a path around Zayn’s waist. It’s selfish of him, but all he can think about is not having to do this with Liam—say goodbye. Even if that means he’ll finally meet that bullet that Veronica promised where Liam’s eyes can see. Zayn hugs Eleanor tighter for the both of them. “You be fucking careful, and if Agent Longlegs over there gives you a way out, _you take it_. Don’t take your eyes off her for a second once you have her, she’ll shoot you right in the back.”

Zayn won’t choke up, because that’s not what this is about. He’d greet death twice over if it meant that Liam could know his own truth, and that Eleanor got to stand here with her dreams in her hands. He kisses her head, and should he rise victorious at the end of the day, he’ll remember the cheap, tropical scent of her hair. “You take care of my club, and my boy. I’ll send him back when he’s ready, when he knows who his family is.”

“Nan’s going to kill you if you don’t make it to Sunday dinner, all fucking three of you.”

That’s Zayn’s cue to go. He recognizes it by the fist of thin fingers patting his back. He kisses Eleanor’s cheek this time and closes his eyes to keep the image of her sadness in the storage of his thoughts, alongside the sight of Liam smiling, exiting a shower, and laughing soft enough to blend the notes of his amused melody into the light shredding through their curtains on a Saturday morning.

She rubs Zayn’s chin with the most gentle touch he’s ever received from her hands, and Zayn’s lips seal over her palm in the most platonic of manners. “If you were a boy, I think I could have loved you.”

Zayn had to take it there, somewhere light where he could hear her laugh one more time. He’s sent away with a punch to his shoulder and another to his ribs when he braces her in another hug. “Get the fuck out of my club, Malik.”

“I gotta go save the world, kiddo.” Zayn makes his departure, Harry back at his side once his moment of privacy with Eleanor is over, and he’s got a father to save.

“Try not to die while you’re at it,” she shouts, waving at him like she may never see him again, but she hopes to. “I kind of like your face, and your wit, and the stuck up way you talk. You take care of my boss, badge boy. If something happens to him, I’m coming for you.”

Zayn laughs at the stricken look that glazes over Harry’s face. Zayn pats him on the back, nodding at Paul to open the door when they get there, the air of a fresh day hitting them with the realization that this is real. “Calm down, she’s not that serious.”

“I feel like I know her from somewhere,” he states, but Zayn shakes his head.

“If you did, you’d remember. Eleanor isn’t someone you forget.”

Harry does make a breach in his movements before they make it to the waiting Suburban at the curb. “You never told me where exactly we were going, Mr. Malik.”

Zayn opens the door for Harry, seeing Liam in the back seat; he opens the passenger side door for himself. “If you want to save your city, you should really think about coming with me. Either I’m right,” Zayn points to the backseat, where Liam sits, waiting. “Or he is. No matter how you look at it, you’re catching the Toothpick—god, you couldn’t pick a better fucking name?” Zayn is losing Harry, he can tell, so he ups the ante. Running impatient hands through his hair and looking at the clock to gauge the time passed, Zayn looks Harry directly in the eyes. “The suspects for your murders have taken the head of the Cowell operation. These are the biggest fish you’ll ever get to fry, so I really do recommend you getting in the car. Because if not, your suspects are dead on sight.”

“You can’t _do that_ , Zayn.”

Zayn snaps, his focus diminished. “ _Be quiet_ , Liam. You’re here so I can prove to you, once and _finally_ who you should be angry with. What I know is on a need to know basis, and _you_ need to know that Veronica has been lying to you, and to me.” He broadens his range to Harry as well, both of them still standing outside the car, doors open and time running out. “I’m catching Veronica Malik, and I _might_ legally hand her over, what you do with Yaser is your business.”

“What are you going to do once she’s in my custody?” Harry is smart, Zayn will credit him that much.

“I’m going to assure the safety of my father, and I’m going to make it my personal mission to see that she’s punished.” Zayn cannot tell a lie, he can’t. It’s formidable, the truth, but Zayn won’t lie to a man who’s going to put his life in danger by getting into Zayn’s vehicle and bucking his seat belt. “And if that doesn’t work out—should I be so lucky—I’m going to kill her.”

“Mr. Malik—”

_“Zayn!”_

Zayn climbs into the suburban and nods to Louis that he’s ready to go, the two remaining men caterwaul behind him, but Zayn has already strapped himself in. “What you do with the body afterwards is completely your business, Agent Styles. But I’m leaving, so I suggest you make up your mind quickly.”

“I’m coming.” Given no choice, Harry climbs inside, and he’s barely shutting his door before Louis is taking off, going by Zayn’s orders when he types an address into the GPS.

“You’re a smarter man than I thought.”

Zayn smiles into the sun and prays to whichever god listening that he’s not too late.

 _I’m coming, father,_ Zayn sends off into the universe, _I’m coming._

**/////**

“What do you mean, he’s _not here?_ ” The address of the public venue is a lot, something Zayn knew already from a previous stake the night before. He wasn’t going to let Simon traipse into a field of traps—too fucking late—but it looks different now. “There was a building here, Louis. A building with people and signs, you can’t _move_ a fucking restaurant.”

It’s one of the only reasons Zayn was content with allowing Simon to meet here with Veronica in silence, no one would be paying them any attention, but if things went sour, there would be a witness to pin Veronica to the wall as a rouge agent. Not that any of that matters, her credibility or her cover. What matters is that Zayn is now climbing out of the car to see for himself that there indeed, is nothing here.

Not that he couldn’t see from his seat through the windshield, but it felt like a mirage, a trick of the eyes that’s not a trick at all.

Zayn’s moves fast, breath labored and fists swinging against the hood of his ride—fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He’s not moving fast enough for Liam’s departure from the backseat to escape his notice, but he does move quick enough to escape his comforting hands. Zayn doesn’t want to be consoled; he wants his father to be safe and unharmed in this lot.

Liam takes it hard, the hurt etched in confused eyes—more confused than before, if it was possible—and Zayn knows that he’ll have to let him know that it’s not personal. Liam should just know that, he really should, but the sudden ridge of his shoulders and the kick of dust he leaves behind on his way to where Louis is looking by Simon’s truck suggests otherwise.

“Boss, I think you should see this.” Zayn looks up, eyes squinting at the harsh sunlight beating at their back in the open lot. Louis is calling him over, hand curled upon his brow to see through the car door without the distortion of overly lit conditions. “It’s Randall.”

The way he hangs his head, Zayn knows. He doesn’t need to walk over and see one of his father’s oldest friends dead in the driver’s seat. “How did he go?”

Zayn wants to know, because when the chance presents itself, Zayn wants to make Veronica pay for what she’s done to his family.

“Hand on his gun, ready to shoot,” Louis calls back, and even Liam looks conflicted, finally. Because this isn’t the work of the angel he’s pitched to Zayn, killing Randall, a big old man only responsible for driving around the king of their small world. That’s the handiwork of a monster. “He took at least four to the chest, and the last one to the face. Close shot.”

Zayn has to breathe, he reminds himself. These people have his father, and they’re ruthless. Zayn is going to be orphaned, once more, but this time there will lie no survivors to fix his mistakes or teach him how to be a man. Simon’s going to die.

And that blood will be on Zayn’s hands, because the only time he believed in someone without question was when they sold him the story of a family. Not wanting them didn’t make a difference, because they still ruined him. They still robbed Zayn by stabbing precisely in the heel of his weakness to belong to a name.

“I’m not going to _let him die_!” It’s a roar from somewhere inside Zayn, a place he didn’t know was built, but it’s there. It’s there because Simon taught him all of the things he needs to know to save him, now he has to use those tools. Zayn won’t let the legacy of a man his mother was smart enough to love die without a fight. “Simon isn’t going to die today,” he rewords, looking at the two people coming towards him, eggshells underneath their feet with the careful steps they take towards Zayn. “And if he does, he’s not dying alone. Call Niall, I need to know everything about this place, right now.”

“I think I can tell you what you need to know.”

Zayn jumps, forgetting that Harry was with them in the first place. That’s Zayn’s mistake, because he’s a fucking federal agent and Zayn’s left him to his lonesome, and hopefully that’s the last error he makes today. Zayn watches him come from behind the vehicle and lock his phone. Untrusting, Zayn can’t be blamed for his instincts.

He has his gun out and pointed, weight warm and lovely in his hands. “Who were you talking to? What did you do?”

Again proving that he’s smarter than the average badge, Agent Styles goes against protocol and keeps his gun in his nice, fancy holster. He pockets his phone and holds innocent hands in the air, speaking slow and calm, the shake of his fingertips the only thing giving away his nerves. “That was my own CI, I called to confirm a suspicion. How often do you guys get over on this side of town, hmm?”

That doesn’t answer all of Zayn’s question, so he keeps his eyes on Harry, even though he really doesn’t have time for this shit.

Liam is the one to answer, behind Zayn with a warm hand on his shoulder, then his straightened elbow. “Not much,” and he nods to the Authority Training Facility sign standing proudly in the sky from a few blocks over. “We don’t make it a habit of keeping business around cop hangouts. I’ve done Simon’s books since I was sixteen, and he’s never hung out this far South.”

“Well then I don’t guess many of you know about the Flash-staurant?” Harry’s standing very still, sighing in relief when Liam’s gentle fingers against Zayn’s elbow crawl to his wrist, pressing his fingertips back and forth to soothe him until he’s lowing his weapon, and Liam’s the one putting it back into the rear of Zayn’s trousers. Harry nods in thanks when he should be explaining. “It’s a chain of food locales, kind of like a food truck, but they serve from a triple-wide trailer, and they stay in one location for two days, serve all the food they have, then regroup, remake, and relocate. Like a flash mob, with food.”

Louis pipes up, showing Zayn his phone, mouthing Niall’s name to him and walking over to hand him the phone. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“People like exclusivity.” Harry looks all too comfortable now, and Zayn isn’t sure how that makes him feel—this guy’s ability to infiltrate any situation. “I was just calling to check it out, it was here until yesterday, they moved again this morning.”

Zayn takes the phone, satisfied with Harry’s answer, but angry at himself for not being more prepared for Veronica’s shenanigans. He turns away and walks, dust clouding around his feet, and he wonders how he let himself be _so stupid_. “Niall, you there?”

He tries to remain calm, and Niall answers him immediately, almost like he knows Zayn is not. “Yeah, what do you need, Zayn? Louis filled me in; tell me what I can do.”

And that’s the thing, Zayn doesn’t know.  Veronica has succeeded in tying his hands, and his father is missing, and for once, Zayn doesn’t have the answers. Cleverness eludes him, and he’s stuck in a gravel parking lot with a cell phone in his hands and his broken world at his feet. “I don’t—I don’t know, Ni. He’s gone, and I’m—I’m really scared that I won’t make it in time.”

He’s far enough away for Niall to be the only one to hear his worries, and when Zayn looks back, they’re all standing around waiting. Waiting for him to figure it out. The fed with his hands on his hips, looking more like Zayn’s real enemy than he knows him to be from their short time together. And Louis is lurking by the driver’s door, awaiting an order, because like Zayn, he’s good at orders, can take them and fulfill them—otherwise, he’s crippled. Not unlike Zayn.

Then there’s Liam, moving on the balls of his feet, then pacing, and Zayn doesn’t understand his anxiety. Nor can he comprehend the weight of guilt on his shoulders, because no matter his hand in this, he was fooled more than all of them. Zayn turns away when Liam’s hands find their way into his hair to pull. He can only deal with one breakdown at a time.

“It’s goin’ to be okay, mate.” Zayn takes the keystrokes in the background for the hope he’s seeking to find. “I have GPS from your On-Star, and I know where you’re at. ‘S that where Simon was taken?”

Zayn doesn’t comment on how disturbing that is, just nods, then realizes that Niall can’t see him—as far as he knows—then speaks through the knot in his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Where we’re at is where they—she, took him. It was about one thirty, two at the latest, does that help?”

“It helps, Zayn. Anythin’ you can give me, helps, bud.”

Cars pass by them, and Zayn wonders what it would be like, to be one of these people with worries of a mortgage and a family. To be worried about the hours fulfilled on their paycheck, instead of the shadows lurking in the dark. He listens to Niall type, and thinks about what his life would be like if he were smarter. What could Zayn have been if he’d just picked a trade? If he just settled down and let life move around him, instead of chasing it with gnashing teeth and angry claws.

Instead of ripping things to shreds on account of his ability to do so.

“There aren’t any cameras, Zayn. None logged into a system online, and even if you got lucky enough to find a manual one pointing toward the lot, I doubt Veronica left it un-tampered.” Niall exhales with disappointment, anger at himself for something that’s out of his hands, and Zayn takes all of his questions back.

He takes all of his wonders and throws them in the trash, because Zayn has people that would sacrifice their freedom, their dignity, and their lives to make him happy. And that’s better than an office job with university friends, any day. “But I do see her, I see her! Okay, alright.”

Niall types furiously on the other end and Zayn tries not to let the sun turn everything orange, and especially not red. It can’t go all red, because she’ll win, Niall coughs to garner Zayn’s attention and the world turns a cool shade of blue when he opens his eyes with renewed hope. “There’s a traffic cam a block up, and the same car comes and goes in the time frame you gave me. There are passengers in the back seat, yeah, but I got her looking up at the light. I got her, Zayn.”

Relief stirs in with the concoction of anxiety in his belly, and Zayn’s turning to yell the good news at Liam. Because when it all falls apart, really, Zayn wants Liam at his side once he has the pieces to rebuild. But Liam is the picture of a frayed man, still pacing back and forth, but faster this time. Niall speaks news of a kink in their plans—he was only able to follow the car for three more blocks South until he lost them on the feeds—but he’s more concerned with the seeping of guilt and frustration that Liam’s leaving on the pavement yards away.

“Liam, _why the fuck_ are you shaking?” Zayn’s feet are moving at a higher speed than his thoughts, and the phone cradled in his hands almost falls in his short journey. He makes it there just after Liam collapses to his knees, head in his hands, chewed fingernails shredding through sweaty stands of hair. “What’s wrong—Liam, _what did you do?”_

When he looks up, Zayn knows that Liam’s omitted something, that he’s pulled the wool over Zayn’s eyes while he was sleeping, and it’s going to cost him more than a wounded pride. Liam’s crying dry tears, eyes shiny and sobs uncontrollable, but nothing comes from his eyes but regret when Zayn holds his face between one hand.

Zayn’s fingers bleed into the flesh of Liam’s skin, and he demands answers. “What did you do?”

“I don’t—I don’t know, I promise.” Liam is the child Zayn once knew, inhabiting an older body, but his scared eyes give him away. Zayn’s side aches where he almost sacrificed himself for the wellbeing of a boy he’ll love all his life, but this hurts worse; being lied to in the face of his defeat. Liam brings his hands down to Zayn’s wrist, and he begs with unsteady stokes of his fingers to be relived from Zayn’s grip. “Full circle, she kept saying—Veronica kept saying it would all come—full circle. That’s what she said.”

Niall calls for Zayn’s attention, and he rips away from Liam before he does something that he’ll spend the remainder of his life regretting. Zayn’s can’t be upset with him, he can’t find it anywhere in the caverns of what small soul he has to place his anger in the form of a blossoming bruise on the man sitting defeated in the dirt. Because no one standing in this parking lot can say they haven’t made sacrifices to unveil the truth.

“Full circle, Niall.” Zayn turns away from Liam’s reaching arms and takes the phone away from his face to project Niall’s responses across the lot. He sees Harry waiting patiently, and Zayn spits out his reply to the apologetic wince he’s given into the dirt. He addresses Liam out of necessity, asking less harshly than before, but not kind in the least. “If you know something else, I need you to say it now, Liam.”

The hair poised on top of Liam’s head falls in the form of a fringe, shaken out by the turns of Liam’s skull, whipping back and forth, telling Zayn _no, nothing else_. “She just said it would all come full circle, said it all the time we spent together. Even last night, when she—when she called me on the phone.” Zayn’s forced to look away, careful not to let Liam see the betrayal cutting into the ducts of his eyes. “ _I’m sorry,_ Zayn. I thought she meant—she said she was going to put him _in jail._ ”

“Think,” Niall commands, and Louis beats his fingers on the car hood to the rhythm of Zayn’s thoughts. “Start from the beginnin’, Zayn. If you give me something,” he spouts sincerely, and Zayn thinks that Niall is the only person he can believe in the next most important seconds of his life. “I can look for it. Tell me what to do.”

Zayn boils down to this, it’s all he’s got. These seconds will decide his fate, the rest of his days. The choice between hanging his head in defeat while Simon’s legacy dies with the bastard children he brought into his home becoming his downfall, or figuring out the plans of revenge Zayn’s relatives have for the one man who never did anything to hurt him. They won’t live happily ever after, but Zayn might have the chance to make sure they’re all alive. For now.

Full circle, he whispers to himself. What does— _what’s it mean?_ In all of this, Veronica has followed Yaser in the dark. As much as he hates to admit it, they’re not entirely different. But Zayn can’t program his mind to think like hers. Raised as an Italian, he’s taught to shoot first—to kill—and then question his motives, should the need arise to question them at all. Zayn rarely sees the need to dwell over the orders he’s given by Simon— _that’s it._

Zayn doesn’t need to think like Veronica, it’s too trivial. He has to think like his father, his biological one. The planning is all concise, it’s revenge in its truest form. Zayn is out of time to be hurt at the thought of Yaser being alive all this time, never coming after him, never caring enough until now. But he doesn’t think of Yaser the father, but Yaser the husband. Yaser the scorned lover, that’s the mastermind.

Keeping a child in the belly of the beast, allowing him to infiltrate a system without his knowing, because he knew Simon couldn’t turn away the descendant of the woman he went great lengths to attain. After he didn’t die in the fire that Zayn guesses Yaser lit, it was the next option, the one that would hurt the most. His need for Simon to feel the betrayal of a loved one was the fire to his insanity. The fire that burned bright enough for Yaser to turn the daughter he also must not have been thinking of when he lit the match and watched people burn.

Innocent people—Liam’s parents, and almost Liam, too.

_Full circle._

_Full circle._

Full circle.

“Niall, look up the murders in chronological order.” It makes hazy sense in his brain, but Zayn spouts his requests anyhow, waiting like a listener as Niall DJs his sick request. When he looks at Liam, he sees the same ripped anguish Zayn is feeling himself, just not concealed to his insides—it’s written all over Liam’s fucking face. Zayn smiles in the sun, hoping to beat the rays of his hope into Liam’s skin with a flash of teeth—a sign of forgiveness. Because Zayn’s going to figure this out, and he’ll redeem them both. “I need to know which murder hit London first.”

“I don’t even have to look, I know it by heart.” Niall, thank fuck for him, Zayn thinks. He’d be lost without the guidance of his insight. It’s crazy, the amount of things accessible with technology, but Zayn’s never been more thrilled with the invasion of privacy it provides. Niall speaks to him fast, understanding his lack of time. “The bakery owner was first. She was selling the house to Simon and his fiancé.” He stops, and Zayn can’t rush the phone to his ear fast enough to stop Niall from projecting Zayn’s business all over the goddamn parking lot. “You know, your mum. Still can’t believe she and Simon—wow, mate, that was a thing.”

But it’s too late, and Liam and Louis are looking at him with incredulous eyes before Zayn has a chance to turn his back. Harry’s keeping a professional grimace on his face, and Zayn is thankful for such. “Thank you, Niall. We’ve established that. Now, I need you—”

“Wait,” Liam’s recovering from his place on the ground, palms dusted in the dirt as he makes his way up to his feet and drags himself to where Zayn is standing. “What exactly does Niall mean? Your mum and Simon—what’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayn doesn’t appreciate the amount of appall Liam has for Zayn keeping a secret—for twenty fucking minutes, mind him—not today, not after—just not fucking today. “Simon was in love with my mum,” it all comes from Zayn’s mouth in an angry blur. “They lied to you, all of them. Veronica is trying to frame Simon, and they lied to you, Liam. If I had to take any bets, I’d say that Yaser is the one that killed your parents on accident, because they were with my cheating whore of a mom, wrong place, wrong time.” He sees the wreckage he makes, but Zayn can’t stop himself. Not even after his brain registers the very loud silence of all parties besides him, in awe of his brutality. “Jealousy can be a real bitch, you know? Now if you don’t mind, I have to save Simon, before the real bad guys kill him. Is that okay with you?”

Niall interrupts. “Zayn, you’re going to want to hear this.”

“They’re going _home,_ Zayn.”

It all flashes red, and Zayn can see her—as a girl—closing him into the room, keeping him trapped in a burning house while everything turned to ashes around him. The heat of the frying pan is all Zayn’s ever known as his home, the chase and the thrill of living an unsafe life. But really he belongs in the flames of his biological burdens.

Liam’s shaking him out of it, and taking the phone from Zayn’s hands. “Niall, you have the right idea, they’re going back to where it all started.”

“I fucking know that, Liam. That’s what I was tryin’—”

But Zayn doesn’t think so, after all this work, they would dump him in a ditch somewhere and be done with it. They’ve fed their desires for the chase and betrayal. Zayn handed Simon over to them, and he’s sure they forced false stories of Zayn putting the dagger into Simon’s back right before leaving him for dead. “They killed him already, Liam. I still want to find him, but there’s no guarantee that—”

“If they wanted it to be fast, they could have killed you both months ago.” Liam’s his voice of reason now, now that Zayn can only see flashes of his nightmares—ones that make no fucking sense right now—and Veronica’s teasing face is at the forefront of his mind, because she’s going to end up fucking winning if Zayn can’t find her. If he can’t save Simon. Liam reassures him, though. “Yaser certainly wouldn’t have raised an arsonist daughter and watched his wife’s mistress raise his own son if he didn’t want his death to be sentimental.”

“Would any of you let me talk,” Niall yells, shocking all of them, and Louis is rushing them in the car, Harry too, because the adrenaline of a discovery is palpable, and they don’t want to be standing around when they figure it out. “The baker put the house up for sale, but Simon never bought it—”

“Seeing as we never lived in it, Niall, that’s obvious.” Zayn is buckling his seatbelt, turning his body to the backseat, only cringing once when Liam moves from his seat to put his hand over Zayn’s. But that’s his anchor the real world, so he’s appreciative.

Liam still holds the phone, and none of them have the stomach to laugh at Niall’s huffing frustration at their interruptions. “It was bought by the local department for employee housing.”

“For a cop,” Harry concludes, which is useful, because— _fuck._

It really couldn’t be.

“It burned down months later, and it was just— _shit_.”

Liam meets Zayn’s eyes, and there’s a glint of recognition that sparks between them. They both know what this means, because neither one of them goes a day without feeling the heat of their death departures. Yaser is, in fact, going home. But Zayn needs to hear it, he needs to know before they go speeding off down those familiar roads, because once he’s there, he can never come back from that. And he knows Liam won’t want to leave his side.

“ _Shit_ hasn’t meant anything good all day, Niall.” Zayn baits him to carry on, and Liam’s never held on to Zayn’s hand tighter.

Harry is obviously confused by their grips from different sections of the car, but he doesn’t say anything, just hovers close to the hand Liam has holding the phone, and listens for a peep from Niall. Which he gets with a disturbed sigh that Zayn can understand. “It was bought as soon as it went up on the market. They rebuilt the house six months ago, and it was leased by one Janine and Jacobi _Grant_.”

Harry’s nodding, yanking files from the case sat in the floorboard. “Those are known aliases of our suspects, they mixed up aliases and changed the last name.”

Liam is shaking his head, begging it not to be true, because they’ve never set foot there since—since the fire. Zayn speaks when he can’t, that’s how completing each other is supposed to work. “Is the address 732 Westlake?”

“How’d you know,” Niall questions in awe, and Louis is shaking his head beside Zayn, starting up the vehicle and pulling out of the parking lot, not even scolding Zayn for having his body turned back to Liam. “Mate, I’m serious, how’d you know that?”

“That used to be my house,” Zayn says, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t scare him to be headed in that direction. Like flashes of melting walls and the scent of charred flesh doesn’t become more real with each mile this car eats up pointed to the house that spawned the monsters under Zayn’s bed.

“The one—”

Zayn finally lets go, snatching the phone and rolling down his window. He doesn’t make the mistake of looking back to where Liam is shell-shocked, mouth hung open and hands stiff where they’ve fallen to his lap. “The one where we almost burned alive. The place where Simon saved us.”

“They’re there?” Harry is confirming, phone in hand, and at this point Zayn doesn’t care who he calls. There isn’t a task force in the world that could stand behind Zayn to fight the demons haunting those walls. He doesn’t care how many times they rebuild it, repaint it. They’re standing on hollowed ground. “You’re sure. Do you know exactly why?”

Zayn lets the wind coming in from the window make an effort at blowing away all of his worries, it doesn’t help. “Weren’t you listening? That’s the place.”

“The place _for what,_ ” and Zayn doesn’t blame Harry for getting lost. But he can’t answer, he’s got too much— _it’s too much._

So Louis does it for him, taking the phone from Zayn’s hand and hanging up Niall’s call, tossing the phone out the open window like Zayn originally intended.

“The place they call home, Agent Styles. They’ve taken Simon back to their home, where it stood before someone burned it down with all of them in it.”

**/////**

It’s the most difficult thing Zayn can catalogue in his life events, coming back here. Facing the thing that almost ruined you, whether it’s a house or a person or a memory, it’s hard. It takes courage that you might not have, and it takes a need for moving on that you might not realize is mandatory for living the rest of your life.

Zayn would like to think his memory of the trees is accurate, not something dreamed up in the shadows of the night to scare him in the light of day. There’s no reassurance of Simon’s presence as Louis speeds to the address, and they park when Liam yelps for him to stop—this is it. It’s almost like the absence of tragedy made them miss it. The branches hanging in the street are inviting to the eyes, lining the road with trees planted by good citizens and watered by the children roaming the sidewalks, but they lunge at Zayn.

Flickering back and forth, his mind tells him that they’re lit aflame, but when he looks, really looks—they’re just branches, and Zayn’s not a broken thing but only a man.

Zayn can see himself growing up here, running around this great neighborhood with his friends—with Liam—riding around in plastic mechanical cars and growing up good and slow with better morals than _kill or be killed_. But he can also see Veronica, waving to him, thankfully not figuratively, but she’s there when he looks. She’s standing in the yard marked as Zayn’s old house, and he can’t believe he didn’t _remember her_.

Sweet and young with a cotton doll hanging from her hip, she runs through the grass, and she stops in the street to wave. Just like his dream, she’s waving. And unlike his dream, she’s not sinister. When he stops flinching backwards in his seat, he looks at her and sees the face of an innocent girl. It’s only creepy because Zayn knows she isn’t real.

The real Veronica, the one alive outside of his dreams and visions and nightmares, she’s grown up. She‘s a woman with a bloody conscience and a lack of compassion for dolls and lost brothers and men who’ve done nothing but fall in love. Whether Yaser instilled that into her or not, it’s the mask she wears now.

He shuts his eyes and when Zayn opens them, the ghost of a girl this world will never know—she’s gone.

In its place is an actual girl, not one that looks like Veronica, but a girl with a red cart. She’s tugging it down the sidewalk, right up to the front door. A girl, with a determined tongue sticking from the side of her mouth, complete with blonde hair and a pair of denim overalls that drown her, is marching to the doorstep of the home housing all of Zayn’s demons.

“What the hell is she doing?” Zayn’s opening his door, because she’s _ringing the doorbell,_ and she’s going to wake the lying beasts inside. “She’s going to get herself killed, what kind of dumb parent lets their kid ring the doorbell of a _murderer?_ ”

“Mr. Malik, wait.” Harry’s leaning over the passenger seat and collaring Zayn back inside the vehicle, not wasting time rolling up his window just as she knocks, his hand over Zayn’s mouth, everyone in the vehicle silent as the door is opened—and there she is, Veronica.

Zayn fights to speak, to roll down his window and yell for help, tell the girl to run, but Harry doesn’t budge, and Veronica is reaching for her hip to pull out her—wallet?

She hands over cash, and Zayn isn’t sure, but he thinks kid overalls is too young to be a hit man. But she’s handing over merchandise—maybe Intel, or something else of value—before pocketing her wad of cash and walking away, huffing her way down the sidewalk, and to the next house— _oh._

“She’s selling _cookies?_ ” Zayn says, removing Harry’s hands from over his mouth, unable to hide his outrage, because honestly that’s ridiculous. “Again, I ask, who lets their kid sell fucking cookies to a killer?”

“They’re not selling kids to Veronica Malik, the murderer, boss,” Louis inserts, knuckles white around the steering wheel when Zayn turns to look. “She’s Janine, or whoever. They moved into a quiet neighborhood, these people have no reason not to trust her, or Jacobi—Yaser. Whatever his name is.”

“Well they shouldn’t,” Liam speaks for the first time since they departed the parking lot. When Zayn looks, his eyes are different, harder. And he’s turning his head, looking right past Zayn and to the closed front door of a house he was too young to remember. “She’s a liar, and no one should trust her. I tr— _I_ trusted her, Zayn.”

The break in his syllables makes Zayn want to crawl back there and hold the boy hiding inside the hard bound muscles of a man. But right now, the only hat that he can wear is that of a son. Zayn nods in affirmation, though he doesn’t think Liam needs to be aware that his guilt has been heard through cracked words and heavy-hearted confessions. “I’ll make this right, Liam.”

“I’m calling back up.” Harry breaks their bond, and Zayn still can’t get Liam to look _at_ him, instead of beyond him. “If you’re going in there, it can’t be alone. I don’t know why she answered the door when they have a hostage, but if Cowell is in there, we need all the guns we can get.”

Harry steps out of the car, and Zayn knows that he’s got to follow soon for his plan to work.

“Actually,” Zayn corrects, opening his door, looking hard at Louis when Liam goes to open his as well, the locks clicking into place, barring him inside with confusion. Zayn pats his hip, where his gun has slipped from the back of his trousers. “All I need is the one I have on me. Six rounds for two people sounds like more than enough.”

“You’re not leaving me here.” Liam is protesting, without room for discussion. Zayn turns the part of his brain off that listens to reason, and shuts out his pleas. “You’re not going in there without me, Zayn, it’s too dangerous. You—you _can’t do that_ to me.”

Louis is kind enough to crack the window, so Zayn can hear Liam’s previously muted replies. But he doesn’t unlock the doors, and Zayn knows that Liam doesn’t really want to leave the confines of the vehicle. If he did, he would reach beyond Louis and unlock them himself, but that’s okay.

It’s okay for him to kick and scream, and still be scared. Zayn won’t ever make Liam face a monster by himself, not when he’s got breath in his lungs. “I’ve got my new friend, Harry, here.” Zayn slings an arm around Harry’s back, fighting the tears that he won’t let spill while Liam’s still looking at him with hope. Zayn’s going to slay the beast, one last time, and Liam has to be okay with that. “I told Eleanor to be expecting you, so you go on. I can take Veronica, easy. You’ve seen me do it before.”

“You don’t know what’s in there.” Liam’s at the window now, and Zayn’s convinced that if it was cracked more, he would try to melt out, make an attempt to reach Zayn, touch him just one more time before he steps into the ring. “I don’t know if I’ll—you don’t do anything stupid, do you hear me? You don’t play _the hero,_ Zayn.”

His tears, Liam’s, they fall freely, and Zayn wishes he had that kind of courage. Zayn nods, and Harry takes a phone call several steps away. Louis keeps an eye on the house, giving them the time to say what might be goodbye. “If I don’t, babe, who will?”

Liam’s hand falls to the glass, and Zayn won’t forget those eyes, not even if he’s lying on his back, bullet piercing the edges of his brain. He’ll see the pout of lips he’s kissed not enough times, and the only eyes able to see past the shield of armor Zayn has spent his life building. The light setting in back of them shreds pink and orange through strands of hair Zayn wishes he could run his fingers though just one more time. Once more before he goes to war.

And those are feelings Zayn feels every day, every time he walks out of the house and into the big, bad world.

“I want you to come back to me, you—you hear me?” Liam’s pain makes it hard to stumble through those words, and Zayn takes a step to rest against the car. And if he really concentrates, he can feel the beat of Liam’s aching heart thunder through the metal and the glass. Their hands meet, adjacent on either side of the window, and if Zayn could trust him not to jump through, he’d have the window rolled down for one last kiss. “Come back home to me.”

“I have to go in there—”

Liam’s forehead meets the glass, and Zayn joins him, both of them on different sides of pain. The sob Liam heaves isn’t dry, and it’s almost unbearable to Zayn’s ears. “I know what has to be done, but you—Zayn, you save Simon, and then you come home.” Liam chokes, and Zayn wishes that this could be easier, that his flesh and blood didn’t lie yards away, trying to make Simon a pile of nothing but bones, because nothing else could make Zayn leave this spot right now. “You hate promises—that’s-I know that. But I promise,” Liam shakes, and Zayn wants to leave to slay the last of their ghosts, just so he never has to see that again, Liam unwhole. “ _I promise you_ , that I’ll be here when you get back.”

Zayn nods, afraid of betrayal that his voice will bring him should he open his mouth to speak. He nods, and the light in Liam’s eyes, the flash of hope tells Zayn that he knows. He knows.

Zayn taps the car, Louis’ signal to take off, and he hopes that his old friend knows the significance of the actions taken place here today. Zayn doesn’t need to tell Louis that he loves him, because Zayn has just entrusted him with his most precious cargo. And he knows that Liam will be in good hands, should Zayn never come out of that house once he goes in.

Because only one set of them is coming out. Should Simon be lying dead when Zayn enters the door, or not, Zayn will carry him out, leaving Veronica and Yaser left in handcuffs, or otherwise chained to their consequences.

Only two people will cross that threshold a second time, and he hopes for Liam’s sake, that it’s him.

He watches his only tie to fate drive away with Harry back at his side. Zayn’s waving goodbye, because he might not get another chance.

“I love you,” falls from his lips, but it’s too late.

Liam is already gone.

**/////**

“You have six minutes.” Harry is very specific and hands on, both of them escaping the middle of the road and standing by a mailbox, more eyes on them than Zayn feels comfortable with. He keeps things straight, doesn’t mention the tremble of Zayn’s hands or the way he blinks repetitively, trying to fight away the visions that come and go. “They’re coming here to clear the area, and as soon as it makes the circuit that London’s biggest criminals are going to be apprehended from this house, it will be swarming with _all_ the wrong people.”

Zayn takes a breath, and he’s focused. It’s that simple for him, has to be. There isn’t any other way to go about it. He remains calm, bumping Harry with his shoulder to alert him to the company they have from all sides, adults and children alike wondering what they’re doing standing on a street they obviously don’t belong on.

Harry placates them with an all around flash of his badge—it’s stupid, because Veronica could be looking out the window right now, peering across the street at this second, and it would all be over. But Zayn guesses that if that was the case, she would spot him as well, and it would have been over far before Harry had the chance to tuck his badge back into his jacket pocket.

“How long can you hold them off? From going into the building,” Zayn asks, satisfied with the privacy he has now, all eyes on him standing huddled behind the glass of their windows. Zayn feels the heat of his weapon now more than ever, ridiculed in a neighborhood that could have been his own. He shakes away the _what ifs_ to gauge Harry’s response to his questions. “There isn’t any guarantee that anyone inside will make it out, and I don’t know my sist—Veronica. I don’t know Veronica that well, but I know if it was me, I’d shoot anyone who tried taking me down.”

Harry sighs. “You Malik’s don’t go down without a fight, huh?” Zayn makes no comment, just shrugs and waits for his proper answer, which Harry gives with another sigh, it’s longer this time, but he’s giving Zayn the best he’s got. “I can do my best, five minutes after that? We’ve already burned through some of the time standing here talking. Do you even have a game plan?”

Seeing as neither one of them is dead in the street, Zayn doesn’t think he’s been seen yet. The least practical way seems to be his best option. “I thought I’d just try knocking on the front door.”

**/////**

Zayn never thought he’d be knocking on the door of this house; the thought never even crossed his mind. Now he’s standing here, lifting a fitting doorknocker—a beast with horns—and if Zayn didn’t know how irony impaired Veronica tended to be, he’d say she chose it for a purpose.

Zayn wonders if their mother was a monster, if his mind had imagined it all—her dying to save him, holding up the beam to assure his escape with a small babe in his arms—or if she was a nice woman, looking at them from another world and weeping over the sins neither child could bring themselves to shed tears over. He’ll have to ask Simon. Not for the first time today, Zayn really hopes he made it in time.

He ducks to the side, thankful this house isn’t equipped with windows that line the entrance to the main door. There’s a peephole that he knows Veronica will use, but he doesn’t see any cameras, so his safest bet lies in staying here, hoping that Harry’s fifteen minutes buy him enough time to get in and out.

The first thing Zayn hears is yelling, and he tries not to let the beat of his heart overpower his ability to hear what’s going on inside. _I’ll send her away this time, fucking Christ._ That’s Veronica’s voice, and Zayn assumes she’s speaking to Yaser, knowing that the decibel of her voice warrants a great length between their places in the house.

Zayn has never seen her drag her feet, she takes each step with careful practice, and this time is no different. The only tell of her presence is the light slide of her skin on the front door—she’s peeking into the peephole—this is it. Nothing is there, Zayn is sure he’s not in sight, but the door doesn’t swing open. It remains closed, and Zayn is so fucking stupid. So stupid.

She’s not going to answer the door if no one is there. Even to Zayn, that would appear suspicious. Looking around, he can tell that this villa of houses isn’t the type to home ding-dong-ditchers. He’s very well blown his chance, but there’s a ricket in the distance.

Right across the street, the little girl is skittering home, obviously her parents didn’t get the memo that there are men with badges and guns. Not the one from Zayn’s nightmares, no, the girl scout with innocent pigtails and quiet determination in her little steps.

The door is opening, out steps Veronica, clothes black and hair in a mess, gloves being taken from her fingers with a drip of sludge that Zayn tries to remain calm at seeing. “Anna, did you knock, sweetie?”

So nice, she is. Nice like she didn’t turn her back to throw a pair of dark, plastic gloves inside her door, keeping them out of sight to keep up the appearance of a woman she will never be. The door stands between them—swung open to conceal him—and Harry is hidden somewhere across the street, waiting for his scheduled back-up.

And the girl?

She’s pointing.

The girl is pointing.

_Right at Zayn._

Zayn forgets for a second that he’s not concealed to everyone, especially not the small blonde child dropping the handle of her little red cart and pointing at Zayn, mouth open to scream before Harry comes out of the shadows to cover her mouth, and Veronica is whipping around to stare right at him. Right at Zayn.

This is his only chance.

They don’t make a sound, Zayn wasn’t stupid enough to take his gun from his trousers to think it would make a difference, and the soles of Veronica’s shoes alert no one to the swift steps she makes, hands coming to Zayn’s neck before he has time to think of moving. “You really shouldn’t have come here, brother.”

Those are the first words she says, and Zayn uses his weight to push them forward, landing them off the side of the porch and into the grass, sharp blades of artificial greenery cutting into the exposed skin on his neck when he sprawls for a tick of a second. He takes out his gun and throws it near the bushes. It makes the first clang of the afternoon when it hits a décor rock, and Veronica is on him, knees in his chest, hands coming towards his face.

Her decision to close her fist slows her down, and Zayn avoids her punch by a fraction, jutting his hips to move her off him, taking her surprise for an advantage and moving her to the ground with him. He rolls with her, arms bound at her waist, and when he gets to his side, Zayn takes all the pleasure in the world pinning her in small defeat on her stomach.

“Do you ever get tired of eating dirt, V?” The gleam of a knife at her ankle catches his eye, and he’s not stupid enough to pass up opportunity the seldom chance it should knock.

He gains the knife, but loses control of Veronica’s limbs and is pushed back, head bounding off the concrete walkway interrupting the yard. Somehow he wishes it was different, that he could sink a bullet into her skull rather than driving a knife into the artery of her thigh. He’s quick enough to silence her scream with one hand, the other on the helm of her blade, driving upwards until warm, wet, and sticky blood coats the base of his hand, and her hands are feeble in their attempt to wrap around his neck.

“You’re too late,” is her plea, her last bargain to save her life, but it’s unwise. The reveal of her plans has never been easy to coax, and the amount of blood she’s losing at such a quick rate takes away the common sense she must not have had when she abducted Zayn’s father. “Baba killed him, he’s dead. Justice-just-justice has been served.’

In the eve of his final actions towards saving the life of his father, it’s been too easy. It should have been harder, and he should have fought longer. But tragedy strikes in an instant and Zayn can only be thankful that it’s not his blood staining the olive blades of nature under his knees. “The gloves you threw by the door? Was that his blood? Or did you kill another stranger, Veronica?” Zayn backs away, keeps his distance to watch her close her hands around her thigh, hissing and gritting her teeth while her hands are finally inked with the blood of someone who deserves to die—her own. “Did you do all of this and never figure out the truth, or did you know?”

“Did I know you’re a bastard?” In the movies, her mouth is supposed to bubble with spit and blood and tears; she’s supposed to be crying and dying all in the same instant. Not looking at Zayn, steadfast at holding the hate in her heart. She’s supposed to die with an apology on her breath, but all Zayn can see is the delusion of a girl convinced she’s in the right. She laughs, and Zayn doesn’t know what she could possibly find funny in the moment before she passes out from shock. “Simon killed our family,” Veronica sobs, tears there this time when he stabs at her thigh again, and Zayn can almost see her catch onto the light. “Our mom was bea—she was beautiful, I remember her. And I remember you, even if—even if you don’t remember me. We were happy, and he took that from us. Why are you try—don’t save him.”

A glimmer of light fights its way through the trees, and she’s lit for one second, her face aglow to showcase the tortured soul shelled inside. She doesn’t know her father is a murderer, and Zayn kneels by her side, careful that this isn’t a trick to play on his mercy. He takes pity, because Veronica’s willing to die for her cause, and that’s not her fault. As much as he hates to admit it, they’re alike in that measure. And Zayn would hope that if their places were reversed, she would shower him in the same kindness he’s about to show her.

It’s all a very fast decision, and he’ll carry her eyes—his eyes—with him for the rest of his days; be them few or plenty. The spew of her blood caresses his face for a second, and he’s kneeling over, pulling her body to his chest, sinking her blade again and again into the cavity that houses her heart. It’s a romantic caress of metal against flesh until Zayn corners the strength to sink Veronica’s knife far into her chest. It’s not easy gutting around and fishing for the right spot while she writhes, tries to move in his arms.

She doesn’t scream. Veronica doesn’t yell for help or mercy, and Zayn doesn’t know if that’s due to the blood in her throat or the strength in her heart.

Zayn does hear a shriek in the distance, a holler that tells him to stop, because he was supposed to leave her alive. He doesn’t lift from his actions to tell Agent Styles to bug off.

Butterflies of Veronica’s soul leak onto Zayn’s hand, and he keeps an arm cradling her head while she shakes. The leakage of their sorrow drips from both of their eyes, and Zayn whispers the last words into her ear, _sorry that it had to be like this._ “I hope you find peace, Veronica.” She’s grappling to find a pull at his back, her body reacting for her out of survival, but Zayn holds still, and he’s sure he can feel the thrum of her fading heartbeat in his hands. “In the next life, I hope you know it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’m—I am so, so _sorry._ ”

Zayn’s not a religious person, no matter how many Sundays he stays seated in a pew. But he feels her, Zayn feels her leave, and a cry to the other side leaves his body for the first time. Zayn has never wept over a soul fading from flesh, and he hates her for making him do it now. Zayn drags it deeper, makes the blade pierce her heart as many times as he can, so she can leave the veil of the in between behind and join their mother on the other side.

She stops moving and breathing and living and Zayn think that he’s given her the best gift of her life. Ignorance of the evil instilled in the man she called her father—Zayn refuses now to believe she wasn’t as brainwashed as the rest of them, though still as rotten—and she did the one thing Zayn is sure she grew up wanting to do. Die for a cause. He knows that, because the need also lies somewhere in the heart cased in his chest.

Zayn is ripped away by hands that are not his own, and he shuts the last breath of his living relative into his box of memories, unable to look down at his hands. He’s shuffling into the grass, ready to leave this behind, because it’s not why he’s here. Agent Styles is holding Veronica, pumping her chest and trying to force life into a body that has left this world.

Zayn sinks back into the grass for a second, because he knows he doesn’t have time. What seems like a lifetime had only been minutes, and Yaser will rise from his place above Simon to check for Veronica. Then Simon’s life will really be over, should Yaser find his daughter mutilated in the grass.

When Zayn closes his eyes, the visions start, but the little girl—Veronica—she’s gone, and Zayn can see. Behind her, in a blaze of glory is a man with a torch and the head of his mother. Veronica’s the distraction for the beast, evil as she may be, the real monster lies behind her façade.

Zayn is up, out of the grass, registering Harry’s yell for _three minutes_ , and he knows he has only ten after that. His gun is still lying by the bushes, and he’s grabbing it, wiping his tears away with his horror-stained hands, and entering the house of his demons. Zayn shuts the door with ease, the only real noise coming from deep inside the house, and Zayn knows that he’s not too late, that he still has a chance.

He clicks the lock into place, and makes steps towards the noise.

Zayn is facing his monsters for the last time today.  

**/////**

The house isn’t far as intimidating from the inside as it appears on the outside. In fact, only the echoes from the root of the housing make Zayn queasy with each step he takes. Everything else, it’s normal. Zayn doesn’t have time to look closer, to remember that he’s stepping in phantom ashes of the nightmares that plagued him. Each room creeps him out, and Zayn creates a tunneled vision, eyes only lingering in corners and nooks, and places that could house threats.

In the face of defeat, Simon’s voice beckons to him with stuttered groans, and Zayn foots around, arm stiffened with the base of his gun palmed in his hands. One step at a time, he makes careful steps around the corridor, only registering more voices to people that he can’t see. A slap of flesh sends terror down his spine, but the brunt of Simon’s laughter cools him, and beckons him to a door.

Mumblings of an argument trickle underneath Zayn’s feet, and it clicks in his mind, that Simon has been brought to their basement to rot. To be poked and prodded until he spilt forth with a lie. Zayn stands there, listening to bones wrack underneath the pressure of a fist. Then a foot, because Zayn knows what that sounds like, knows what it looks like, even.

Simon is meant to be in the seat of the powerful, not the weak. Zayn’s listening to his downfall, because as soon as he opens that door, there isn’t a chance for return. He’ll be found out, and the chances of Simon’s survival are slim.

“Say it, Cowell.” Yelling, more yelling. Zayn’s ears flood with the sound of Simon’s scream, but not his surrender. Never that. “Look at me,” Zayn hears, ear against the door, eyes closed to the dangers of details stored inside this house creeping into the shell of his brain. He doesn’t want to look, just hear. “Tell me what you took!”

But the longer Zayn stands here, the less likely it is for Simon to make it out of the door at all.

Zayn frees one of his hands and sends a prayer. It lasts a second, but he asks the warriors in the sky for the strength of his mother. He wishes often he could remember her face, the lies whispered inside him all for naught, because right now he can admit that he does. That he tries to remember, harder than he tries to forget. Zayn requests the resiliency of the woman lying in the grass, her fate finally met on the eve of Zayn’s darkest hour. And Zayn hopes he can be as true as the image Liam holds of him, for all the qualities he can posses in the next moment will determine his fate.

This is his one defining moment.

Zayn flexes his fingers over the handle, and in the silence he can hear the whispers of his guardians. Shocked, he closes his eyes, and when he looks back, he’ll swear he saw them, safe and happy on the other side, behind him with their kind eyes and strong faith. He turns the knob, and the sounds of Simon’s agony halt, as do the demands of his paternal enemy.

“Veronica,” Yaser calls, voice heavier now that Zayn has pulled the door away to cease their barrier. “Veronica, who was at the door?”

The build of the attic isn’t untypical. Zayn’s got to march himself down stable stairs, only rickety in their design, not their build. Steps away from his redemption, and the drip of water—Zayn prays that it’s water—won’t deter him, no matter the amount of shivers it racks along his spine. One step down, and Zayn can see a table, lined with tools that look unused, only guns, silver and steel thrown misshapen. As if someone couldn’t decide which one to use. Zayn’s mind doesn’t stray from the clock ticking at the forefront of his brain—the authorities should already be lining the perimeter outside.

“Veronica, answer me.” But Yaser cannot hide his suspicions, and Zayn is one footfall away from revealing himself. “Who was at the door, Veronica?”

His father—Yaser—his voice cradles around a velvet hither, beckoning his intruder forward with the guise of ignorance. Zayn’s played this game before, allowing him to find clarity in the slow footsteps of his predator towards him, towards the stairs and closer to the table lined with weapons for the downfall of his guest.

Zayn takes it, one step than two until he’s at the bottom of the stairs and Yaser has no time to lunge, no time to grab himself a weapon of use before the flesh he bore in another life is standing in front of him with a gun to his head. “Me,” Zayn breathes, the grace of his unknown mother flowing forth with a steady voice. “I was at the door, Yaser. Were you not expecting me, _father?”_

He spews the title in vein, because the person responsible for fathering Zayn is tied to a chair, knocking breath from Zayn’s lungs at his broken image. Zayn would close his eyes, bat the split lip and burned face from his memory if he knew it wouldn’t cost his life. Like his daughter, Yaser will undoubtedly be quicker than Zayn will give him credit for. And also like the woman Zayn robbed of life, Yaser’s a liar.

He lies in the way he stands before Zayn, hands in front of him, cloth rubbing away flesh that Zayn can only now smell. This man took a lighter to Simon and watched him burn, a true arsonist. Fire is his weapon of choice. Now Yaser’s got the broken skin on his hands, where he busted the skin that he charred with angry fists. He makes an attempt at deceiving Zayn with a smile, and then open arms. “You’ve come home, son.”

“I am _not_ your son,” that spillage of his psyche doesn’t take long, and Zayn never lowers his gun. Not even as he takes in the details of the weak man standing between Zayn and his salvation. He’s got lofty hair, and a strong brow that Zayn wants to see faltered under the weight of his sins. “I will _never_ be your son, Yaser. It’s over for you.”

It’s almost a vision in itself, watching his lips move, and Zayn blinks rapidly to assure himself that this isn’t a dream. That the villain of Zayn’s nightmares stands in front of him willing Zayn over for a hug, shrugging when it’s apparent he’s got rejection in the form of an unwavering hand. Zayn won’t lower his gun, not for the small promise of a family or a father that shares the DNA that allows him to be still here today.

“I watched you grow into a good man, son—”

“Stop,” he yells, and Zayn tries to meet Simon’s eyes without straying his attention from Yaser. But his eye has swollen shut, and the open one speaks to Zayn, _don’t trust him._ It’s advice unwarranted because Zayn has no intention to let the lies of the serpent serenade him. “Stop calling me that,” Zayn says, calmer, because rage won’t win him the war. “There are people outside here to arrest you. I’m not a fucking narc, so I won’t go through the routine of telling you to put your hands up, but if you move without my permission, I’ll kill you.”

“You would do that,” Yaser baits, sticking his unclean hands in the direction of the now hunched figure nearly a yard away from Zayn. The collar of his shirt stretches, and even in his clothes, Yaser doesn’t fit. He doesn’t fit in this world, never mind the rest of the evil he blends with. Yaser’s eyes match the ones Zayn sees in the mirror, and he’ll never smile the same due to the stark similarities he notes when Yaser lifts both corners of his mouth in jest. “You would do that for a man who took you mother from me? A man who takes lives for pleasure—you would kill me for him?”

Yaser makes a mistake, a slight fault when he tosses his rag away to distract Zayn—to take his eyes away from Yaser for a second—and it works. But what Zayn sees, what Zayn unearths in the spilt second he looks away from Yaser and in the direction of the casually thrown rag is a tub. A tub that catches his attention because it’s red—it’s contents are red and they spill over. They’re fucking everywhere.

Little red toothpicks.

Yaser doesn’t make a move for his gun, he looks at what Zayn sees, holds his hand high because if Zayn found him, he has to know things Yaser doesn’t want him privy to. If Zayn is here, it means he’s capable of connecting the dots. And all Zayn’s ducks sit in a perfect row now, the proof yards away from his feet.

Yaser is cautious, judging Zayn’s reactions and speaking slow. “Let us talk, before you decide.”

“Before I decide to kill you?” Zayn can’t believe him, can’t understand the logic in any of this. “I’m not taking your word over the word of someone who’s never lied to me. You killed all—you killed all of those people to get to one person?” Zayn’s world spins, but he never closes his eyes, he lets it hurt and burn at the strain he puts on himself not to be sick. “What kind of person are you? How do you live with yourself?”

“Did he tell you that I was his friend, son?” Zayn’s finger flexes around the trigger at the word, and Yaser nods in acceptance, mumbling an apology before carrying on. “Did he tell you that I did things for him? That I betrayed my badge, and then he betrayed my trust? Did he tell you that, boy?”

His preamble is in lie for a bigger game, he’s stalling, but he makes very good points. Not any that Zayn would fall to, but he wants to hear him speak. Zayn can’t hide the desire to watch this man, to listen to him while his mind creates a world where Zayn got to spend time in his presence. Zayn wonders what kind of man he would have been should the knee he sat upon as a boy would have been Yaser’s, not Simon’s.

A shake of the head, but Yaser doesn’t move. Though still in his footsteps, his body is alive. Yaser has a set of shoulders Zayn imagines building mountains upon and they move with his breath and his hands. “He didn’t, did he? Let me ask,” he says, fingers clasped while Simon sits in the background, mouth tied and face stripped of dignity. Yaser follows Zayn’s line of sight and spits in his direction. He sneers at Simon, like a kid pulling faces on the playground. Because Simon took his Valentine. “Is a lie of omission still a lie? If I told you that your mother was going to _throw her life away_ with this man, would you still be pointing a gun at my head?”

“Simon was going to propose to her,” Zayn isn’t sure of much, but he has his facts, and the lull in Simon’s stature, the raise of his head and the question of _how_ in his eyes tells Zayn far more than he could find in a database of information. Yaser can’t stay still, it’s his flaw, Zayn decides. He’s constantly vibrating with movement and Zayn recognizes a disturbed man when he sees one. “She was going to be his wife,” Zayn says, gun still in the air, movement outside evident now in the blanket of silence suddenly laid upon them. He doesn’t have time. They’re out of time. “Simon wanted to _marry_ Tricia, not kill her. I’m not Veronica; you can’t sell that lie to me.”

“She was _already married!”_ He wants to take a step, Zayn can see it, but for now Yaser just throws his hands, the picture of rage. “To me! She was married to me! And I gave up _everything_ to make her happy! I bought this house, because _she_ wanted it. She told him she wanted it, and I made arrangements for it to be mine!”

Zayn’s never been a fan of people playing the victim, and now that he sees it in his heritage sake—Zayn wants to crawl in a corner and cry. It’s all too much. Everything. Zayn is looking at his father, a deranged man holding onto the past, holding onto hate and lost love. Zayn always pictured him as a coward, an absent man in the flames. But he was the one lighting the matches, and Zayn—Zayn’s not sure he can carry that around with him for the rest of his life.

“What else,” Zayn can’t keep the crack from finding its way to his voice. He waves his gun to keep Yaser in one place. “What else did you _do for her?_ ” Yaser’s frayed, burying his hands in his hair, and Zayn knows the clock is ticking but he wants to know. He wants to _hear it_ from Yaser’s mouth. “What did you do _to_ _her,_ ” Zayn asks, voice shielded with a kindness Yaser does not deserve. “Tell me what you did.”

“I tried to make her happy,” he admits, and Zayn doesn’t know what Yaser means by that. He’s not sure he wants to know. “I gave her the car, and the house, and we already built a family together.”

“But did you love her?” Zayn can’t say he feels sympathy, but he’s tried to buy love, and it doesn’t work. No one has stopped to tell Yaser that, that love can’t be forced. “Did you love her, da—Yaser? Did she want all of those things? Or did she want them with someone she loved?”

“What do you know about love?” It’s like looking into the future, and Zayn knows now, in that moment, that something else would have set him off. If it wasn’t Simon, his mum would have found another reason to leave, and Yaser would have found another reason to go insane. “What do you know? You’re in love with your brother, with _a man_. You’re disgracing your name—my name, son. Don’t tell me what I did wrong, because I did _nothing._ ”

“You killed her!” Zayn doesn’t need to play inside Yaser’s head, he has a replica of his own. He’s dark, and he hurts sometimes, but there’s a corner of Zayn’s psyche that didn’t transfer with genetics, and it’s that part that Zayn speaks to right now. “You killed her because she fell in love with someone else! I know _plenty_ about love,” he explains, “and I know about people. I know that if someone stops loving you, they never really loved you in the first place.”

Yaser’s trying to convince himself, more so than Zayn when he shouts his reply. “I loved her!”

With the softest voice of the day, Zayn tilts his head and hopes that Yaser can see the pain Zayn knows he felt. Because you don’t kill someone—take the life of a person you love—without feeling it with you every day after that. “You killed her, didn’t you? It was an accident. It was an accident, Yaser, but you did it? You loved her, but she didn’t love you. It was an accident.”

Zayn’s emotions warp around his words, and the sound of tears hitting plastic is the only reference to Simon in the room.

Yaser’s eyelids shut the same time the stairs creak—it must be the Feds, and they’re about to get their confession. “She was supposed to be meeting me; she wasn’t supposed to be there. _He_ was supposed to be there. It was too late, I tried to get her out—I did try.” Yaser breaks in front of Zayn, crumbles with a heavy throat and Zayn thinks that this might be the first time he’s admitting it to himself. “It was _an accident._ ”

Zayn opens his mouth to apologize, because through the evil this monster knows pain. At his heart he’s true, but in his mind, he’s not right. But he thinks he is. Yaser thinks to speak the truth, because Simon _did_ take his wife, but Yaser burned her. And he burned the souls of innocents in his attempt to right the heart of a woman who will never get the chance to love anyone, ever again.

It’s over faster than he ever could have expected. He watches the darkness leave the soul of what could have once been a good man. Simon cries out for Zayn in the distance, maybe because he sees the last shred of hope leave Zayn’s body. But it’s for the best. It’s dying hope for a better world with his kin living in it. Its hope that Zayn will raise children and bring them to meet the man responsible for his place on this Earth, and it takes a final breath with Yaser.

Zayn sees all that in a second.

A trigger is pulled, twice, and Yaser’s head opens up, leaving the sickness of his brain spattered along the walls, and his lifeless body falls onto the floor— _it happens so fast_ —but the shots are not from Zayn’s gun.

His immediate reaction is to duck, but he makes the three step trek to Simon, and he’s diving blind to the ground as another shot rings through the basement. Body covering a weeping Simon, Zayn shoots behind him, shoulder twisting at the backfire in his twisted position, and he doesn’t look as he fires again.

And again.

“Zayn, stop!”

That voice.

Zayn’s looking up, unhinging his eyelids and looking at the approaching figure. Liam stands there, shirt red with blood that _better not_ be his own. Zayn’s mind supplies the dead woman in the grass and he’s closing his eyes for a second. When he opens them, Liam is standing over Yaser’s body, and a swarm of black jackets comes through the door, Harry at their tail.

Liam kneels, and Zayn knows from the shock in his eyes, that Yaser is dead. He won’t hurt anyone anymore. Zayn lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. And he fears. He fears for the innocence he’ll no longer find in Liam. In the weight he’ll carry around for a kill that feels justified, but Zayn can vouch for the guilt that never really goes away. It’s demanded that they put their guns down, all of them, Liam’s shots scaring the suits in the door.

Zayn can’t look at him, he can’t see what he’s created, because Liam is now soiled. His soul will never be the same, never as light, never as true. And its Zayn fault, because he didn’t pull the trigger sooner. He didn’t beat Liam to the punch, and that’s worth more than the blood of a thousand men coating his hands.

So he busies his self with untying his father—the real one, biology be damned—and Zayn pays no mind to Liam sinking to his knees beside him, or the swat of agents buzzing in the scene around them. When he touches Simon’s face, he’s sympathetic to burn on his cheek. The light in his weeping eyes tells Zayn that it might be a long time before they’re okay.

Liam is all around him— _how did he get here_ —and Zayn’s fingers shake at not being able to unbind Simon fast enough. At his shock, it’s Liam who comes to his rescue. He’s calm and collected and not at all embodying the posture of a man who’s just taken a life for the very first time. “I’ve got you, Zayn. I got you.”

Those are his lines, and Zayn—Zayn is being ridiculous. Very carefully, he unhooks the gag from Simon’s mouth, and he draws Liam in the hug he should have already been giving him. “I’m sorry you had to do that.” Zayn knows that he can break later, that he can shake in Liam’s arms and they’ll hold each other and let out the tears, but for now he’s just glad. Zayn is very aware of their safety. “I might kill you myself for being here, but I’m glad you—you’re safe. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” And he’s pulling away, their need to touch each other, to feel the skin underneath their fingers does not go away. Zayn hopes it never will. Liam kisses Zayn’s hand, and then his knuckles, their lips meeting in a regrettably brief instant before Liam only has eyes for Simon, his hand outstretched. “I believe I owe you an apology. I heard what—” Liam can’t say his name, and Zayn hopes that never changes, that the last flicker of innocence burns for the rest of his time. “I heard what he said, and I owe you a lot of things, but mostly an apology.”

“I didn’t know your mother, but she was a great—she was a great friend to my Tricia.” Simon’s tears have to burn his exposed flesh. It has to be painful to cry in an open wound, but he doesn’t wince. His hand seeks out those of his boys. They sit there as a family, in the sense that the love they share for one another is the one thing that will save them all. Simon looks at Zayn, and it’s the first time he’s seen a lick of vulnerability in the man he’s built stories upon.

“I loved her son. I wish you could remember. I wish—I wish she could see you.” Simon sheds more tears, and Zayn has never been more proud of Liam than he is in the moment he gathers a man he once claimed to hate in his arms, both of them crying over what could have been, and celebrating what they have. “I wish she was here.”

They sit in silence while the chaos ensues around them, and Zayn thinks they all dwell over the spirits lost on this ground.

The EMT interrupts them, needing to take a look at the wounds Simon has sustained, nothing major. From the looks of it, Yaser had been intent on verbally bashing him until he broke, the torture strictly to relive a life from before. They get him standing, and Simon insists that he wants his sons with him, both of them. Bastard makes a joke about incest that has Liam colored pink in seconds. But when they stand there, all of them broken in brand new ways, Yaser is still lying on the floor.

Zayn allows sorrow to take over his heart, because his namesake died looking for the truth of his lies. The lies he created a life upon, out of revenge for a mistake he was never willing to call his own. He built something out of his unreturned love. Love had, and love lost. And he concocted plans and laughed in the face of danger, trying to play on the bonds he forgot to form with his son prior to allowing him to stay in the arms of a man his lover turned to in the darkest of her hours.

Revenge is a sick thing, but Zayn can’t say he wouldn’t be as driven if Liam left him tomorrow.

That last shred of hope for knowing the past is finally dead, and Zayn knows he’s a better man for having the twisted brain of the ghost in his dreams clinging to the end of his shoe. They’re prompted to move, and Zayn and Liam fade into the background as men in suits and armor take Simon past them. Zayn shares a look of mourning with his father. Because regardless of the actions taken by the man on the ground, he was still a man. A man with desires and hopes and dreams, and they both share a handshake and a silent _I love you,_ and emergency leaders carry Zayn’s real father out the door.

Zayn garners his gun from the wreckage, thanks his mother with a silent prayer, and climbs hand in hand with Liam out of the house holding their conquered nightmares.

Simon is being loaded into the back of an ambulance, despite his protests. And Liam walks right past Veronica in the yard with no passing glace. Zayn pulls him forward, tugs him against his front and makes the kiss count for all to see. The catcalls around them—mostly Simon’s—don’t matter, because Liam is safe, and he’s here, and he loves Zayn back. Which before today, is something he took for granted.

Their teeth clash, and Liam’s hands fist fiercely in the back of Zayn’s dress shirt. He doesn’t even fucking care that those wrinkles will never come out. He has a feeling the blood won’t either. Liam’s face eats up the sunlight, and how Zayn could think that this man could let the darkness overtake him won’t ever register in his brain. Brown was never his favorite color, not until now, with Liam looking at him with all the hope that Zayn had lost in the four walls standing behind them. “I love you, Zayn Malik.”

“Marry me, Liam Payne.” With blood on his hands, but an over abundance of love in his heart, Zayn asks Liam the most important of questions. Zayn holds that face in his hands, he keeps up with the confused eyes, and he kisses his questionable lips. Drawing back, he breathes it in the air once more, making this place their haven instead of their hell. “Marry me, and stay with me. Never leave me, and if you do, I promise not to try and kill you.” They share a bubble of laughter in the hubbub around them, and the approaching officers don’t escape their notice. After all, today they both have unclean hands. “Marry me, and never look back.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

_And they run._

They run fast because they’re innocent, and they can prove that later, but not from a jail cell. Zayn believes in the system, and he believes in the father that’s given him everything cheering as Liam takes his hand and leads him to where Louis waits for their arrival.

They scream, _go, go, go,_ and the cops don’t even chase them. Maybe because they did a good thing, and they stopped a pair of murderers that just so happen to have Zayn’s DNA, but not his heart. Liam shaped him as much as Zayn did in return, and they’ll be okay, because they have one another. In this world, that’s enough.

Louis doesn’t need to be told a destination, they’re going home. They can be questioned and detained later, Simon happens to have an excellent lawyer. For now, they’re free, for just this time. Stained hands join in the middle of the backseat, and Zayn is compelled to look back at the scene they left behind them.

He sees her, among the people roaming scared and the flurry of reporters just making it to film the tragedy that took place there today, the ground sacred to the blood of the Malik line. It’s a little girl, one with his face, and she’s waving at him. The light around her, the color of the dawn, it’s red.

For the first time since Zayn crawled out of his fiery nightmare, he doesn’t feel like she’s calling him back.

She’s waving goodbye.

Zayn waves back, and he hopes she finds peace. Looking beside him at the smile of a boy who might need to be mended in the dark of night, Zayn knows that he’s already found it for himself.

He’s truly lived, and for once, he’s not afraid to die.

Not if Liam is by his side.


	6. epilouge: found a demon in my safest haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short epilouge from an unrevealed POV, right up until the end.

**/////**

They look so happy, content to be in one another’s presence. Light bounces from their hands, each of them, where their fourth fingers meet their knuckles. She smiles at Zayn over her glass of champagne, and takes in the grounds around them. Significance dwells on these lands they’ve called home for two decades. Her heart aches with happiness for her friends.

Zayn deserves each smile, each lift of his lips and meeting of his hands with Liam. Their fit is undeniable, unshakable. She couldn’t imagine two people worse for one another, but they melt into the grooves of their differences in the face of a fate that has denied them happiness again and again. Zayn nods at her, a thank you. A thanks for being here at the happiest time of his life.

She wouldn’t trade it for the world, any of it.

Her pocket buzzes, and Zayn’s calling her over, but she’s alive with nerves, is each time her cell phone rings, and she declines. Moving back the breast of her blazer, she holds her phone up as a signal of reprieve and Zayn is melting back into Liam’s side, joining his family and his father. They laugh and sing and shout in a jovial celebration that would not be allowed for anyone else in their secret organization.

But Simon gives them this thing, because he’s known the love that they share, and he can’t bring himself to take it away from the boys who saved him. Long before his abduction, Zayn and Liam touched his soul, so he throws them this wedding as a commemoration of their love and his own.

Always aware of her surroundings, she steps aside, bowing out with grace and a smile that covers her tracks. She ducks underneath a tree, blowing a kiss to Nan before concealing herself to take her call. “You know I’m busy, what do you want?”

It can only be one person; no one else uses this line. No one that isn’t at this party has this number. A commanding voice speaks back to her, and she takes it with a harsh roll of her eyes. “I know you’re playing house with the Cowell organization. I’m calling to remind you that you have a job to do.”

Flustered, she reminds herself to speak low, knowing that ripping this man a new one isn’t worth blowing the indiscretion she’s built. “If you would do your job right, and control your impersonators, I could have done my job _months_ ago. Veronica Malik wasn’t in my business plan, sir.”

Unhappy with her tone, her superior speaks with no remorse for her position. He wouldn’t, because he’s never had to do this. He’s never had to infiltrate a life and build a friendship. He’s never set foot outside of his office, and he’s never executed any of the orders he barks. “We gave you the go ahead to force Zayn’s hand, it was very risky and completely unorthodox to allow men to _blindly beat_ a suspect to near death in an alley way.”

“Again, I didn’t know Veronica would come along and spin it to turn Liam against Simon for her own reasons.”

Sighing, he knows she’s right. “Well then I suggest you find another way to force Liam into testifying against his illegal counterparts.”

Not like this, not after they survived a tragedy together. Their bond is unbreakable, and even if she got Liam to consider trading information on Zayn—which she won’t—none of it would hold up now that they’re married. Now that they’ve declared their love, she doesn’t stand a chance of twisting their secrets against them. And if she’s honest, really honest with herself, she wouldn’t want to. They’ve been through _enough_.

“You wanted Simon Cowell behind bars, and you had your chances to get him there.” The wind kicks up her hair, and Zayn’s looking at her again, waving her forward once more, and she can’t say no this time. He needs her by his side as his friend, and she wants to be there. A fluttering of her heart tells her that it’s wrong, smiling at him under false pretenses. It hurts, because she really does love him. Coughing, she ends her conversation. “Now that Zayn is head of the operation, you want him. I’ll give them _both_ to you; you just have to give me time.”

“You’ve had your time.”

She’s had plenty of time, and she’s had plenty of opportunities. Standing here now, at the wedding of two of her closest friends, fake or otherwise, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to do it. Zayn’s heart might not be able to take another betrayal.

But its business, Zayn taught her that. This is business, and it’s her job.

“Give me _more time_ , then.” He begins to speak, but her separate alias has given her the gall to run over his orders with her own. “And next time you decide to send an agent into my investigation, you give me a proper heads up so I can get the fuck out of there.”

“I won’t have you speaking to me this way!”

She gives Zayn the finger, their shared gesture of hold the fuck on, and she pushes off from the tree trunk, taking steps and speaking more brazen than ever before. “You sent me in here to take down Simon and his associates, and that’s what I’m going to do. You have my word.”

“Your word better mean something, Calder.”

Calder, she hasn’t heard that name in ages. Usually it’s just Vincero, spicy Sicilian with her own attitude, and no time for anyone else’s. More so than that, it’s Eleanor. And Zayn can vouch for her, that she always keeps her word.

“Trust me, it does.”

 _Trust,_ she laughs, _what a funny thing._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it through all of this, you deserve a medal! 
> 
> I would love if you told me what you thought, good or bad. Feedback is really cool, and I know this was long but I hope you still liked it? There's some sticky parts, obviously I'm not perfect even though I really tried to tie everything up. 
> 
> With such an open ending, such a betrayal, there might be a part two? Maybe? There also might be outtakes, and maybe flashes of their lives and maybe the wedding, but no promises. I don't want to disappoint anyone. I hope I didn't put you to sleep, sorry to anyone who was waiting on this. And I hope it met any expectations you may have had. 
> 
> XO
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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